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

by John Donlan

  He was aware of Harrow smiling nearby, could almost sense the smug satisfaction coming from the hateful man in waves. Luscard, standing on his right, had stiffened at the ruling, though thankfully had chosen not to speak out against it. He was angry though, and Gadmar could not blame him for that.

  “The Southmarsh is our most important duchy,” the king went on. “And as such, it cannot remain without a duke. Therefore, I have reached a second decision. The Duchy of Southmarsh will fall to the rightful heir, Darius Crow. He will assume the title of duke until such time as his death.”

  There was a collective gasp of surprise from the gathered dukes. It was clear that none of them had expected this kind of ruling. Harrow had likely spread word that the Southmarsh would at last, pass out of the hands of the Crows and into the control of another duke. With his strength and status growing, he had probably suggested the possibility of the lands falling into his own hands, as he wanted. And the lords had believed him. Gadmar smiled thinly as he raised his head once more. He glanced to Harrow and saw the man’s face turn a bright red with anger. His teeth were clenched and his jaw set stiffly. Gadmar had to fight to keep the smile from spreading across his face. It was almost worth the loss of his title to see Harrow so enraged. Almost.

  “To ensure the line continues unbroken,” the king went on, ignoring the seething anger on Duke Harrow’s face. “It has been agreed that Darius Crow and my daughter, Elsine Losarn, will be joined as one and married. Such a union will secure the future of the kingdom and bind our families together.”

  Harrow stepped forward, his expression livid. “This is an outrage!” He hissed, turning to the king and almost spitting in his anger. The veins were standing out on the side of his neck and his lips were peeled back in a snarl. “This man failed the kingdom, failed his king, failed all of us. And instead of the right and just punishment he deserves, you reward him and his family with increased honour?”

  The king stared at him, and for the first time since he had arrived in the capital, Gadmar saw a hint of the old ruler rising to the surface again. The monarch’s features were twisting with fury. “I have done all that was required by the laws of the kingdom. He is paying the price for his failure, but I will not make an example of a loyal and worthy man, just to satisfy your craving and lust for power. Gadmar is a man far more worthy than you, Lord Harrow, and soon, very soon, I will see you pay for everything you have tried to do.”

  The king rose from his throne, an imposing, powerful figure once more. “I have made my decision. In two days I will ride north with Gadmar to see the wedding of my daughter and his son, and to see the lands and titles pass to them. It is my final word on the matter. Leave me. Now. All of you.”

  Gadmar bowed low and then turned on his heel. He could almost feel Duke Harrow’s rage emanating out from the man like a living, breathing entity. Gadmar felt suddenly nervous. In this state, there was no telling what the other duke might do.

  “Find the men,” he whispered suddenly, leaning in to Stairn as close as he dared. “Bring them to the castle however you can.”

  Stairn nodded once, briefly, then hurried forward to the doors of the throne room. Gadmar followed more slowly, his body taut and filled with nervous energy. He wanted to get out of the room and return to his own quarters. He felt suddenly stifled amongst such a large crowd and he needed space and room to breathe. As he walked, he glanced from side to side, studying the faces of the lords. Most were confused, but some seemed to be set into an expression of grim defiance and determination. Gadmar frowned, and then, as he lowered his gaze, he saw the hilts of swords resting against the hips of many of the gathered dukes and their attendants. He came to a stop, fear rising quickly in his chest.

  Stairn, a few paces ahead, reached for the handles of the doors and pulled… then frowned as they refused to budge. He pulled again, but the doors remained closed. They had been barred from the other side.

  “What in the name of...” Gadmar’s mind was suddenly racing, and he realised instantly the implications of those barred doors. He spun on his heels, hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. But he was too late by far.

  He watched as Duke Harrow stepped up onto the dais with the king and draw a dagger from his belt. He saw the man whisper something to the king, something that Gadmar could not hear, then casually plunge the dagger into the king’s ribs.

  The throne room descended into sudden chaos. The lords who were loyal to Duke Harrow drew weapons, and their attendants and guards did the same, turning in the blink of an eye to run the weapons into the bodies of those who stood by the king. Most had no time to do anything other than stare in shocked horror as Tomar collapsed onto the dais, before they two were cut down viciously. Screams filled the air, mingling with cries and the clash of steel.

  Gadmar, throwing off his stunned paralysis, drew his sword and took a step back. Some of the other lords had managed to escape the initial slaughter and had started to fight back, using whatever means they could. But they were vastly outnumbered, Gadmar saw, and unlike the treacherous dukes, they were not armed. None of them had come here expecting this, and they had brought very few aids with them. It was obvious that Harrow had planned this all along. The king’s decision had not mattered; Harrow had already determined that Tomar would die.

  “My lord!” Stairn was at his side, his own sword in his hand. “The doors are barred from the outside...”

  Gadmar nodded. Harrow had planned this, too. He had seen a chance to remove all obstacles in his way in one fell swoop. With the king dead and his allies slaughtered, Harrow could take control of the kingdom by force of arms. Inwardly, Gadmar was a whirling hurricane of anger and outrage, but outwardly, he remained calm. His old battle instincts had not faded entirely. One of the traitorous lords rushed at him with sword raised. Gadmar swung his blade and blocked the attack, then ran the man through.

  “Break it down,” he hissed over his shoulder to Stairn. “I will watch your back.”

  Stairn hesitated for the briefest of moments, before turning to do his lord’s will.

  “Luscard, stand with me,” Gadmar hissed. He gripped his sword in both hands and turned to face the battle that was raging. Duke Harrow was winning. A few small knots of men were fighting over near the dais and the body of the king, but they were being swarmed and cut down viciously where they stood. Soon, it would be all over.

  He heard his son draw his blade and smiled grimly. Though he feared the worst, he knew they would not go down without a fight. They would stand together, father and son, right to the bitter end. Behind him, Stairn slammed into the doors. They shuddered, but held. Again, and the doors creaked against the assault. Gadmar felt a slight hope welling in his heart. He only had to hold out long enough for Stairn to get through the barrier, and then they could reunite with the soldiers he had brought, and perhaps make some kind of difference to the…

  His thoughts broke apart as the blade of a sword slid into his side, piercing his flesh and cutting into his vital organs. His body shuddered and he stumbled to the side as the weapon slid free. Gadmar half-turned, trying to see who he had missed, which cowardly lord had been lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike.

  Luscard was the only one standing there. He held his sword in hand, blood dripping from the tip of the blade and spattering to the floor. His face wore a shocked expression, as though he could not quite believe what he had done. The hand that gripped his weapon was shaking almost uncontrollably.

  “What…?” Gadmar touched the wound and his hand came away thick with blood. “My… son… Why?”

  “Because you are wrong, father,” Luscard said. His voice wavered, and Gadmar could see him trembling with the weight of what he had done. “War is the only way forward, the only thing the Tho’reen understand. I am sorry you did not understand that, too. I am sorry for what I had to do, but the kingdom must come first. Before family, before blood, before self-interest. You taught me that, father. That is why we are here, after all. Duty before
anything else!”

  Gadmar shook his head, unwilling to believe what had happened. Even as he took his last, quivering breaths, he refused to believe that his son was the one who had taken his life.

  “I will make sure Southmarsh is secure, father,” Luscard said softly. “And that our name goes on forever, in a kingdom made safe by the defeat of the Tho’reen. It has been promised.”

  Gadmar’s vision began to fade. His sword fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. He shook his head once and then collapsed onto his back. Blood seeped from the wound on his side.

  The last thing he heard as life slipped from his body, was the sound of the throne room doors crashing open.

  Thirty-Three

  The horse stomped its hooves in the slick mud restlessly and shook its head as though eager to be on the way once again. It was irritated by the flies and the humidity in the air, and by the drizzle that seemed to be falling constantly. A black gloved hand snaked out to pat the beast on the neck idly, and it stilled.

  Armensha moved her hand back to the rein and guided the horse up the trail towards the city that lay in the distance.

  Marsh End was not as large or as grand as many of the cities back in Tho’reen, but it was well fortified, built to withstand armies and invasions. A huge wall surrounded the city, and up on the hill at the centre of the city, was another wall around the great fortress known as Castle Crow. It was an imposing edifice to be sure, but no bastion was immune to invasion, especially not an invasion of one, with the skill that Armensha possessed.

  She had only been to the city once before, on a task set her by an old acquaintance who had lost a loved one in the war. That woman had wanted revenge against the soldier who had killed her lord and husband, and she had paid handsomely for it. Armensha had been more patient back then, and she had spent days watching the castle and the city before finding a way in that was not watched by the soldiers on the wall.

  On the western side of the city, where the wall almost touched the swamp and the surrounding forests, there was a drainage grate. It was a small culvert, barely large enough for the sewage of Marsh End to seep out; certainly not big enough for a man to squeeze through. But Armensha was not a man. She was lithe, flexible, agile, and her body had been able to squeeze through the opening left after she had removed the grate. She had squirmed, wriggled and eased herself through the muck and mud and raw waste of the tunnel beyond, and then up into the city itself.

  She could have gone through the gates, of course; if it had been anywhere but here, it was unlikely that anyone would have recognised her for what she was. Her disguise was a good one, and well suited for those who expected to see what she wanted them to see. But here, in Southmarsh, the men were more wary. They had been the first hit after the Tho’reen assault years earlier, and ever since, they had learned to look for signs of a fresh invasion. Unlike others in the kingdom, they would know a Tho’reen when they saw one.

  Armensha turned off the path and led her horse into the trees at the edge of the marsh. She slowed the beast to a slow trot and guided it along a relatively dry patch of ground that snaked deeper into the mire. Flies buzzed around her head, eager for a feast, but she ignored them and focused on finding a place she could camp for the rest of the day. She wanted to be well rested for her trip into the city that evening. The stench of the skullshead that grew all over the marsh was less easy to ignore, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  On her journey east, she had passed a burned out farm and met several scavengers who were picking through the ruins. They had been set to run as soon as they had saw her horse, perhaps thinking her part of a patrol, or a local noble, but she had stopped them with coin and asked them what had happened. Upon hearing the story, she had realised how lucky she was. The scavengers had told her of the girl that had been with the local lord; the dark-skinned, dark-haired Tho’reen girl. Armensha saw the link, saw the strings of fate all weaving together into a perfect tapestry, and knew that she was close to her quarry. The proof she had been sent here to find was in the castle, protected by the duke’s son, apparently, but still well within her grasp.

  She was happy. It meant that her journey into these colder, inhospitable lands was almost over. When she had her prize, she could return home, to Shuvani. Seeing the joy on her lover’s face when Armensha returned with her captive in tow was all she needed to motivate her onwards. It kept her going, warmed her blood in this bitter land.

  Armensha found a raised mound deep in the swamp, out of sight of the road and the city both. It would do her well for the day. There would be no need for her to linger past dark. She dismounted from her horse and set about building a small fire with tinder from her pack and whatever dry wood she could find. She was careful to retrieve only fallen branches and not to cut any from the trees. When she fled with her captive, the people of the castle would come looking. She did not want to leave behind any traces of her passing, even here, in the dark and wet heart of the swamp where few ever ventured.

  When her fire was burning softly, Armensha sat down on a fallen, moss covered log and warmed herself next to the flames. It felt good to have some heat once more. She took some dried meat from her pack and munched on it slowly, tearing strips away from the hunk calmly and deliberately. It tasted bland and tough, but she’d had worse by far. She washed it down with water from her skin.

  Overhead, dark clouds skidded across the sky, threatening fresh rain. Already she had been caught in two downpours since entering Losarn. A third would not trouble her any more than the first two had. Still, she hoped that it might stay away. She had seen more rain and dark clouds since coming here than she had in most of the rest of her life put together. It never rained in the desert, and in other parts of Tho’reen it was still rare.

  She hated this land, and its people. They were both dour, grim, humourless and wretched. She longed to return to the heat and the open spaces of Tho’reen, and to see Shuvani again. Soon. Very soon.

  She devoured the rest of the meat and drank again from her water skin, then took her bedroll from the saddle of her horse and laid it out over a relatively flat piece of the ground. She would sleep for a few hours, and when darkness settled over the land, she would make her move.

  Armensha closed her eyes, and drifted slowly into sleep.

  Thirty-Four

  Darius watched the gathering of lords and ladies carefully as they assembled in the great hall of Castle Crow. They were the men and women who had a stake in the safety, prosperity and security of the Southmarsh. They contributed soldiers, wealth, resources and fortifications, and as a result, they had a small say in how the duchy was governed. Most of them were old friends of Gadmar Crow, and respected him greatly. Those who were not true friends still accepted his rule, even if they did not always see eye-to-eye.

  If war came to the Southmarsh, these were the people who would see it fought.

  Darius had sent messages out over the past few days, requesting the presence of each of them. Some had ridden night and day from the furthest points of the Southmarsh to be here, responding to the urgency of his summons. Others were still to arrive, but he had decided that he could not wait any longer to tell them all what he knew.

  Darius was sitting at the high table at the head of the hall with his sister on one side and Needra on the other. Some of the nobles gathering in the chamber glanced at Needra uncertainly, sometimes with open dislike, but none of them commented on her presence. It was obvious to all that she was not of Losarn birth; most would recognise her instantly as a Tho’reen. Darius had wondered briefly if admitting Needra to the council would be wise, and had determined quickly that her presence was necessary. She was the main reason for the gathering, after all.

  Needra had awoken from her deep sleep three days before. She had been confused and disoriented at first, but she had quickly regained her composure, if not her strength. In truth, she should still have been in her bed, resting and recuperating, but what Darius had learned after she had re
gained consciousness had been enough to convince him that her recovery would have to wait.

  Darius stood as the last of the nobles entered the room. The hubbub of conversation quieted as he raised his hand.

  “My friends, nobles, lords and ladies. I thank you on behalf of my father, Duke Gadmar Crow, for your timely arrival. I know it must have been difficult to get here as quickly as you did, and you have my sincerest respect for heeding the call. The decision to send out the summons was not made lightly.”

  There was a low murmur of appreciation for the thanks, but it was muted, as though the gathered men and women were more interested in hearing the reason for being called to Marsh End. Darius could not blame them. Such councils were almost unheard of, especially since the end of the war. He could only remember two such occasions in recent memory, and both had been for less urgent matters. The lords of the duchy were often busy with their own affairs, and did not appreciate being disturbed for things that they deemed unimportant, even by the ruler of Southmarsh.

  He cleared his throat. “What I have to say concerns us all. You will have heard by now of the tragedy that occurred in the swamp; the brutal slaughter of delegates from the Tho’reen empire, along with a contingent of High Keep soldiers who were escorting them here, to the castle. It was that massacre that forced my father north, to account for his failure. Even now, he faces the king and bears the responsibility for what happened. But I know now that he was not to blame for the horrors of that day.”

  Torelle reached out and touched his hand. He glanced down at her, smiling wearily, and she nodded at him, encouraging him to go on. He was glad she was here. She gave him strength.