The Winds of Strife (The War of the Veil Book 1)

by John Donlan

  Gadmar felt a heavy weight settle on his chest. In his heart, he had expected as much. He had expected far worse, in fact, but it still grieved him to hear that it would happen. It was not concern for himself, however, that brought the sadness to his soul; he feared for his children, and what might happen to them without the protection of Marsh End and Castle Crow.

  “I wish it could be another way, my old friend,” the king went on. “But Harrow would have no less. Still… I am determined that he will not have it all his own way. Your son will inherit your lands. He was not responsible for the death of the Tho’reen emissaries, and he is the rightful heir to Southmarsh. Even Duke Harrow cannot dispute that. I am sure it will enrage him, but I no longer care. I almost relish the chance to face him head on at last.”

  Gadmar felt his spirits rise once more and he smiled as he clapped his king on the shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “You do not know what this means to me.”

  “I am not done,” the king said quickly. “There is one other thing I would have you do in exchange for this kindness. Your son, Darius, will marry my daughter. Our lines will be joined in marriage, and the Southmarsh will show it’s full support for the crown.”

  Gadmar swallowed. He knew the reason for this turn, and he knew he could not deny his king, but it had the potential to go very badly for his family. It would tie the fortunes of the Southmarsh into those of the king. If Tomar fell, so, too, would Gadmar’s home and family. Whoever inherited the throne would see to that.

  “Perhaps,” the king continued, “if the lord of the Southmarsh stands with me, the rest will fall in line. It is the only way, Gadmar. I wanted to tell you now, so that you were not surprised when I announce it formally in the throne room. I want you to agree because it is the right thing to do, but I also want you to know this… if the marriage is not agreed, I will make your punishment something far, far worse.”

  Gadmar looked into his king’s eyes and saw for the first time a hint of the powerful ruler he had once been. And for the first time, he wished that it was not so.

  “I understand, my king,” he said softly. “And it shall be so.”

  Twenty-Six

  The ship was Losarn. A wide-hulled vessel with three tall masts that had been built to survive in the harsh open seas beyond the western coast of the kingdom. But it was sailing in waters that belonged to the Tho’reen, which was why the colours of the flag were missing. Tho’reen patrols would know it for what it was, if they should encounter it, but they would need to be close to see the tell-tale signs. The ship was taking a risk being here. A small one, perhaps, considering the Tho’reen navy rarely came this far north, but a dangerous risk nonetheless

  Armensha stood in the prow of her own small boat and watched through narrowed eyes as a launch was lowered from the side of the ship into the misty waters below. It was difficult to see just how many men were on board the smaller craft, but she could see the captain, standing and staring out over the calm seas in her direction. If he was nervous about being here, he did not show it.

  She waited patiently as the sailors rowed towards her.

  She had followed the western coast of Tho’reen for three days, and was now close to the border of the Kingdom of Losarn. The waters near here were heavily patrolled with Losarn ships, and crossing into their waters was a dangerous and risky proposition, even for a boat as small as hers. If she was caught, she would be executed swiftly. The Losarn risked no incursions from Tho’reen, no matter how small, and Armensha was instantly recognisable as coming from the south. She had taken some precautions to hide her identity – a white powder lightened her face, for instance, and she wore a dark dye around her eyes to hide the slight slant that was a dead give-away, the beads in her hair had been removed, too – but it would not be enough if her boat was boarded. The sailors of the Losarn navy were adept at spotting potential spies and interlopers, no matter how well disguised they were.

  The smaller rowing boat stopped beside hers and the captain studied her for a moment. He held a lantern in his right hand, and the dull glow made his features seem sinister, especially in the murky shadows of the mist.

  “You are late,” he said a moment later.

  Armensha sniffed. The captain was being purposefully belligerent. She had arrived exactly when her message to him had said she would be. “Then we should not waste any more time. Unless you have changed your mind and my gold is no longer of interest to you.”

  The captain frowned and then shrugged. “It is of interest, but things have changed. Losarn has become nervous of late; you can blame your own savage people for that. Everyone is talking about war, and the patrols have increased. It is going to be a lot more dangerous now...”

  Armensha had expected this. She pulled a coin purse from her waist and held it up for him to see. “Fifty more coins if you get me to Roven safely.”

  The captain pursed his lips, then grinned. “Come aboard!” It was almost tradition amongst the Losarn smugglers of late to add an extra levy onto their prices; they could get away with it, since there were so few of them willing to take the risk.

  Armensha’s boat was anchored in a sheltered in a cove she had used for just such a purpose many times before. It was hidden from view of the open waters, and larger ships could not get close because of the rock overhang. It would be safe there until she returned with her prize.

  The captain was a smuggler, ostensibly, bringing much sought after spices and silks from the Tho’reen into the kingdom where he could sell them for high prices. There were always people on both sides of the border who were willing to earn a healthy profit from illicit trade, even with the incredible risk involved. When the money was right, the captain also sometimes agreed to smuggle people as well as goods. Armensha had paid for his services several times before, when it was necessary to enter Losarn unchallenged. His ship was a registered merchant ship, that plied trade between the western coast of the kingdom and the semi-autonomous Bitter Isles that lay seventy miles out. The patrols knew him, and though they often checked his vessel, it was rare for them to ever find anything of interest. The money he greased their palms with probably went a long way towards ensuring that they never would.

  Armensha sat silent and thoughtful in the rear of the small boat as it rowed back to the ship. She was already thinking ahead to the mission she had been given. Shuvani had told her of a girl that had survived the ambush in the marsh. How Shuvani knew that, Armensha was not sure, though she had her suspicions, all of which revolved around the priestess Shuvani had been meeting with. Whatever the source, Shuvani seemed convinced of the truth of the matter. Armensha’s job was to track that girl down and bring her back as evidence of the massacre that took place in the swamps of Southmarsh. The girl would confirm Shuvani’s claim that the Losarn were responsible for the slaughter, and she would have her war.

  Armensha’s plan was to reach the port town of Roven, on the western coast, the outermost settlement in the southern region of Southmarsh. From there, she would head inland, following the lower mountain roads, until she reached Marsh End, the capital of the south. That was where she would find her quarry, she was sure of it.

  She could have tried to get through the pass in the mountains, but that was a very, very dangerous prospect. The pass was guarded on both sides, and the chances of being spotted were high. Besides, it would have taken her longer to reach her destination, considering she would have had to have travelled much of the way across land. Roven was a safer prospect. It was well guarded by the soldiers of the Southmarsh, but she knew from experience that they were often lax and at ease, and that she would be able to slip by them without notice, especially since she would be arriving on board a Losarn merchant vessel.

  “You must wait below decks,” the captain told her once they were aboard the ship.

  Armensha had no need to be told what to do. She knew all the hiding places aboard the vessel, and she knew how to keep out of sight.

  Without a word she went down into th
e hull of the boat and opened up the hidden compartment where the captain stowed his smuggled cargo. It was barely fit for human habitation, but it would be satisfactory for Armensha’s needs during the journey. Another three days would see her in Roven.

  Armensha settled into the tiny hole and sat back against the hull of the ship. She did not relish the journey ahead. Losarn was cold, perhaps not as cold as Arrenissia, and not so much in the south, but to a woman of the Chumar, it may as well have been. She had been raised in the blistering heat of the desert’s heart, and she was acutely sensitive to colder weather. She was already looking forward to her return to Tho’reen, and to the arms of Shuvani.

  Armensha loved the Jagir. It was a love that she knew was not truly reciprocated. She was not sure even if Shuvani was capable of love, or ever would be. But Armensha was satisfied with what she got. She cherished every moment she was allowed to spend with her lover, and she would follow any order Shuvani gave her, even if she lost her soul in the process. One day, perhaps, Shuvani might learn to truly love her.

  Closing her eyes, Armensha drifted into a deep sleep, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship.

  * * *

  Roven was a backwater little town on the rocky and mostly inhospitable south-western coast of Losarn, nestled close to the huge range of mountains that served as a border between the kingdom and the Tho’reen empire. It was a relatively hot and humid place, that seemed at odds with the name of the region it belonged to. There was no marsh; the waters from the swamp became a river here, and the town sat at the mouth, where it merged with and flowed into the sea. The town only survived due to its closeness to the Bitter Isles. Trade kept it alive.

  Because of its importance as a mercantile centre, a number of ships were docked in the cramped port. Several of them were patrol ships, each crewed with sailors of the Southmarsh navy. The kingdom’s entire fleet was made up of ships that was ostensibly under the command of one of the dukes. It times of war, they came under the sole province of the king and his admirals, however.

  Armensha left the ship warily, keeping a close eye on the guards and soldiers that were evident everywhere in the town. Some of them glanced suspiciously in her direction, but she was not stopped. She had left from a merchant ship, which meant she was unimportant in the grand scheme of things; it was as she had planned.

  Her destination was a small inn on the edge of town, the Sailor’s Lament. There, she planned to spend a single night before hiring the use of a horse to carry her inland the following day.

  The innkeeper was a fat little man with a bald head and an unpleasant habit of sweating profusely. He eyed Armensha in a way that might have earned him a cut throat had it been anywhere but here. As it was, Armensha ignored the lewd and predatory look in his eyes as she paid for a room. He grinned at her as though she were nothing but a piece of meat and handed over the key to the room. She was aware of his gaze following her eagerly as she made her way to the stairs that led up to the first floor.

  Once safely ensconced in the tiny little space that served as a room, Armensha took out her most prized dagger and set it on the table beside the bed. She was not overly concerned that anyone would risk breaking in to her room, but she was naturally cautious, and she was not prone to taking chances. A part of her hoped that some wretched little man did try something so that she could gut him like a fish. She was already tired of the task at hand, and taking out her dissatisfaction on some lowly gutter dog would go a long way to sating her frustrations.

  That done, she moved to the window and stared out past the last few buildings in the town and along the road that led east, into the heart of Southmarsh. Her quarry was somewhere along that road, and in a few days, she would have them. The sooner the better as far as she was concerned. She stared for long minutes, then eventually turned from the window and went to sit at the table to sharpen her knife.

  Twenty-Seven

  As soon as he was free of the marsh, Darius rode his horse hard. Under normal circumstances, he would never have pushed his mount to such a degree, but with the life of his sister and others in jeopardy, the animal’s welfare was the least of his concerns. Every time he thought about Torelle facing the creatures from the swamp, he felt as though his heart was being crushed in his chest. Images of her bloodied and mutilated corpse flashed through his mind, no matter how many times he pushed them away.

  He heeled the mount’s flanks and drove onwards, over the small hills and farmlands of the Southmarsh.

  Darius had outpaced his two other soldiers quickly. He had ordered them to ride after him, but not to push themselves. They were both injured - not fatally, but enough that they needed time to recover. Two men would hardly make a difference to the fight ahead anyway, and most of his focus was turned towards the garrison inside the walls of Marsh End. There were over two hundred men stationed there, and they would be more than enough to deal with whatever force was after his sister and Needra. If he could get to them in time, that was.

  The dirt was flung up beneath his horse’s hooves and the chill of early evening caused the beast’s breath to frost as it ran. Darius leaned over the saddle, directing his mount with subconscious ease. He knew the road well; he had ridden it many times, and every pit and bump was familiar to him. Even if they had not been, he would not have slowed his mad dash.

  The city appeared up ahead, lights blazing against the growing darkness of the night. Rain was pattering down as he drew close to the walls, but the falling drops were not nearly loud enough to drown out the peal of the alarm bells that were ringing out over the walls.

  People were dashing out of the gates in a mad panic; hundreds of them, squeezing out as quickly as they could to escape whatever horror was enveloping the city. Others had already managed to get out and were dashing headlong along the road, or towards the trees and the swamp.

  Darius frowned at the sight. Was it possible that the force that had attacked the city was large enough to cause this much chaos and confusion? He doubted it very much. A group that big would have been noticed by the patrols, or by farmers. Instead, he suspected that the panic had spread from word of mouth, and that most of these people had no idea what they were even running from.

  It created a problem for him now, though. The people crowding at the gates would make it difficult, if not impossible, for him to get back into the city.

  Another worrying thought occurred to him on the heels of the first. He had expected the enemy to be attacking the gate, or perhaps to have even breached the gate and made their way into the city. But from what he could see, there had been no fight at the gates, which could only mean one thing: the enemy had found another way inside. They might already be at the castle. Darius was not sure how that could have happened, but the thought persisted.

  Several guardsmen were standing just outside the gates, shepherding the fleeing people to the relative safety of the woods that stood a short distance west of the city. Darius drew his horse to a stop and jumped down quickly. When the nearest of the guards saw him, the man threw a hasty salute.

  “My lord! It is good to see you. The whole city is in a panic… when the alarm sounded, people just...”

  Darius held his hand up to stall the hurried explanation. “There is no time for that. Do we know where the attack is focused?”

  The man started to shake his head then suddenly changed his mind. “Nobody is certain, my lord, but most of the citizens were fleeing from the centre of the city… from the castle...”

  Darius had expected as much. The creatures had found a way into the city. They knew that Needra was staying in the castle, and so they had attacked there. But was it possible the attack had been launched too soon, before Torelle and Needra had returned from the swamp? It was the only hope he had, and he clutched at it the same way a man being pulled beneath the marsh would cling to a vine or a branch in the vain hope that it would keep him safe.

  “I need to get into the city. Has the garrison been roused?”

  “Aye,
lord, but they are having trouble getting through the streets. The crowd here is small compared to those in the city...”

  Darius nodded and turned back to the gates as more people managed to squeeze through. “I need to open a path through,” he said. “Sound a horn.”

  The man did not question the order. He rushed into the small guardhouse outside the gates and returned a moment later with a bone horn clutched in his hand.

  The horn was part of a warning system developed by the men of the Southmarsh generations earlier. Different blasts were used to convey different messages that would be heard and interpreted by others not in the line of sight. Over the years, it had developed almost into a language of its own, where complex orders and relayed commands could be passed on quickly and with relative ease. Darius only hoped that his men on the other side of the wall would catch the notes over the sound of the chaos and the rain and the alarm bells, and act on it.

  The guardsman sucked in a breath then blew several swift notes into the horn. The sound was clear and loud, and to Darius’ relief it carried over the roar of chaos at the gates. An answering call came a moment later.

  It took longer than he had hoped, but soon Darius noticed a gap opening up in the pushing and shouting crowd as the soldiers on the other side of the gate forced their way through. As soon as there was a space clear, Darius drove into it.

  He regretted his impatience almost instantly as the crowd surged against him, crushing his body and driving the breath from his lungs. He pushed out with his elbows and arms, fighting forwards, gasping and cursing at the panicked people on both sides. It didn’t seem to make much difference. He could feel them closing in again, squeezing him like an orange in a vice. An arm hit his nose and he felt blood flow. Another drove into his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. He almost fell then, which would have been disastrous, but at the last moment a hand closed over his upper arm, keeping him steady.