It was hard not to feel the hopelessness pressing down on her. Maybe a quick end to the war would be the best possible outcome. They would end up with a despot again, who had full and absolute power over everyone in this land. For so long, she had sought a better outcome, but it looked impossible to achieve one.
Chapter 7
"AGAIN," THE ELDERLY swords master said and Roisen raised his sword, sending a fierce strike against the target, sending splinters flying. Not too rusty, Roisen thought, lowering his aching arm. It had taken hours to harness and return the fluidity he’d had when he’d been training. So long unused, his arm had lost its easy movement and natural response.
How much he would actually fight, he didn't know. His spies told him that Wierstoke was not practicing at all, which suggested he wouldn’t bother actually participating in the war. There was also no indication that Wierstoke had any magic in his ranks, which wasn’t surprising. There may not actually be any magic yielders left. The merest hint of magic and Raufasger would remove said person, insisting on a hundred percent control of magic in this land.
Trying a few more strikes, Roisen was pleased with his arm and its building strength. His strike could cut off a limb and kill anyone who came at him. On his horse, few would be able to successfully take him on.
Now it was time to rest and he returned to his tent, where he sat down and poured himself a glass of wine. The noise of camp was relentless and the canvas of his tent did little to dim it. His army was now resting from their march, by day, steadily moving toward the citadel where the battleground had been agreed.
In two days, they would meet and they would battle.
They were well matched. From what his spies told him, Wierstoke had gathered an impressive army, but had had to resort to training men to fight, and more who had recently been pressed into service. The most skilled fighters, the guard, still refused to pick sides, which was a shame, but it was true that they were needed to guard the realm against falling into total chaos.
His spies also told him that Ashra had left her estate and gone to Colmire. She had returned shortly after. Her nature had driven her to see for herself the state of Colmire, but it had been foolish and dangerous. The trouble with Ashra was that she compromised for no one, including her own safety.
Her nature would also not see her pick sides in this war, out of objection. It was foolish and irrational, but she would bend for no one. In a way, it was a quality he admired. But it also negated everything they could have together. Together they would have been strong. Together they could defeat Wierstoke.
This war was unavoidable. Perhaps it always had been. Wierstoke was a brilliant strategist when it came to business, but how that would relate to battle, Roisen didn't know. It would not serve Roisen to underestimate his enemy. The battle would be hard and many would die—perhaps even him.
Pulling out a piece of parchment, he picked up his quill and it hovered over the paper.
In two days, I ride out to battle, he started, then didn't know how to continue. There were so many things he wanted to say. This was the first time he'd written to her since she'd left his estate. They now had a child together, a child he had never seen. I know you wish this war would never happen, but it was always inevitable. In her heart, she knew that was true, as much as she didn't want to admit it. This had to be done. They would never have peace otherwise. Even if he had never challenged Wierstoke, he would always be seen as a threat. This is what she didn't understand. She thought they could simply exist in peace if they chose to. Perhaps they weren't quite as noble as she wished them to be. Or maybe they were not as noble as she.
For some reason, his fingers refused to form the words he wanted to say. For ages, he simply stared at the parchment. How is my daughter?
Screwing up the parchment, he threw it across the desk and picked a new one and stared at it blankly, stroking along his eyebrow with his fingers. Speaking to her seemed impossible. What he really wanted to say was that he wished she'd stand by him in this. He wanted her to understand that he was doing this for them.
Obviously, he would never have her anywhere near the battlefield, and he had to be grateful that she didn't want to be there, but instead to be nearby, to be worried for him and wishing him victory. Did she not understand how much that mattered to him?
For a moment, he had to consider whether he'd be better off if she had never come to the citadel. He hadn't needed anyone back then, but her arrival had changed that.
He simply had to win this war, and then he could deal with her. She would come around once her pride was smoothed. It was also not in her nature to stay away once things were settled. Some aggrievance, probably on behalf of the peasants, would draw her to court, and then she would have to deal with him.
Her body and how it reacted to him told him everything he needed to know. She would return—if only to confirm her daughter's safety. Her children were always her primary concern—like a lioness guarding her cubs.
Writing this letter was proving more difficult than he’d expected, but he couldn't put it to side.
In two days, I ride into battle. The sides are well matched and there will be casualties. I know you hate every part of this, but it was always inevitable. It is necessary for a peaceful future. I wish you could understand that. If I do not survive, you will have to deal with Wierstoke and he will always be very wary of you. You need to watch your back.
Putting the quill back in the ink, he paused. He had no plans of succumbing in this battle, but he wasn't foolhardy enough to conceive that it was impossible. A piercing arrow or a skilled blow and it could happen.
The baby in her care for was now his legacy. Small and innocent, and completely unaware of what she meant in the world. Having never seen her, his mind had formed an image of her.
I trust you wish me well in this endeavor. Did she, though? Or did she wish him to fail? Wierstoke would kill him if he failed. It really was succeed or die. She did understand that, didn't she?
There were so many things he wished he could say, but he couldn't bring himself to. Folding the parchment, he heated wax to seal it. "Bring a messenger," he called to the guard just outside his tent.
Leaning back, he stared at the letter lying on his desk. How would she respond to it? Were his sentiments hinted enough? He supposed it didn't matter now. Battle was coming, and her feelings on it had very little influence. It would just be nice to see some concern.
"Take this to Lady Greve," he said when a rider appeared, dressed in a traveling cloak. "At the earliest opportunity."
The man nodded and took the letter. Too late to say anything else now.
Leaving the tent, he turned his mind to practical things. So much planning had already gone into this. Men had been trained and armed. The blacksmiths were still working furiously. Horses were being tended and men fed.
Leaving his tent, trampled mud squelched beneath his feet. Everywhere around him, there were unpleasant smells of wet leather, horses, swine, men and mud. Battle was dirty business, and shortly the smell of blood would be pervasive, stinging the nose with its nauseating sweetness.
Everyone was busy, making preparations, getting themselves set up for the coming evening. The men would drink tonight, celebrate their lives and coming victories. Tomorrow, most would be too nervous and introspective to drain their cups. Only an idiot would charge into battle with wool in their head.
At the crack of dawn, they would march to the battleground and make camp. One more night after and the morning of battle would dawn. There was a sense of anticipation in the air. He was familiar with it, knowing it from all of Raufasger's campaigns. Although they had never had been a battle such as this. With Raufasger, the majority of battles had been grossly unfair. At times it had been little more than slaughter.
Raufasger's guard had been, and still were, highly skilled men often fighting peasants with farm implements rather than weapons. It had been different in the beginning when battles had been more fierce, but as
the enemy fell, the calibre of opposition increasingly lowered until there were none left.
This war would instead be clean. One victor would emerge and this war would settle a course for the future. Any subsequent challenger to the throne wouldn't have any legitimacy. Roisen was certainly not going to leave the throne in such a weak state that it would be threatened by challengers.
This battle would probably not be the only one in this war. There would be more, but they would pit their skills against each other, and the war could well be foretold in two days’ time. And Roisen refused to be the loser. While he lived, he would fight.
Chapter 8
SITTING IN HER STUDY, Ashra stared into the fire. Roisen's letter sat on the desk where she had laid it. He was riding into battle, probably around now. It could well be that he was dead, and she didn't know. A deep frown crossed her brow. He was right in his letter when he said she hated all of this, but there was nothing she could do to avoid or prevent it.
There was an accusation in the letter, an uncertainty that she wished him well. It hurt. Not just because he wasn't sure she wished him well, but also that the state of their relationship was such that they couldn't rely on each other. It felt like a failure, but she couldn't trade peace between them by betraying everything she felt was right.
Was anything going right anymore, though? Was it all wrong, and heading in a worse direction? It seemed like she couldn't really tell which way was up anymore. Was going to war the wise thing to do when the right thing was unavailable?
And then there were the starving and angry people of Colmire. Should she be working with Roisen to get them what they needed? Ultimately, it would be a short-term measure that would eventually deliver them all into servitude again. Was the price of freedom too high, especially as her objections to how things were going seemed to impact very little?
Glancing over at the desk, she saw the letter, the embodiment of proof that their relationship was given second place to the theater of dominance. They were both guilty of it, and that spoke uncomfortable truths about them.
What point was there in dwelling on it? Her task was to speak to Captain Burgess and ensure he would not step in if these villagers fended for themselves. The land around their village should be theirs. Both Wierstoke and Roisen were too distracted to concern themselves.
Ashra rose from her chair and walked out of her study. There was silence in the house. Both Charis and Tabain were sleeping—for once at the same time. It was a miracle, she thought with a smile. Every day, they reminded her that there was still good in the world, there was still principles worth fighting for.
Shortly she needed to leave for the citadel. There was no doubt in her mind that the place was no longer safe—and that was from both sides. No one looked very favorably on her at the moment.
A knock on the door, drew one of the footmen out and there were hurried whispers. Closing the door, she saw that the man was seeking her.
"Here," she said, drawing his attention.
"There are men approaching," he said.
Instantly, Ashra felt the hairs rise on her arms. This could not be good. Was she under attack? Which of her enemies? They must have waited until the battle to act against her. Where were her defenses? "How many?"
"Five."
"Five?" she said with surprise. No one would attack her with five men. This was clearly something else. An envoy? It was still a strange time to send an envoy. Or perhaps Roisen really had fallen. Discomfort spread up her spine. No, it would be too quick. The news would not travel so fast.
Who were these men? Returning to the study, she went to the window. A horse and cart was seen in the distance. Clearly not one of the nobles, or even citadel business. This was something else.
As Ashra watched, they drew closer and she didn't recognize any of these men. They were roughly dressed. Until she saw the man from the Colmire tavern, the angry one—the troublemaker. He was clearly the leader of this gang. Men with such strong opinions didn't follow other men. What in the world could he want with her?
Taking a seat at her desk, she waited for them to be led to her. They looked somber and out of place when they arrived, looking around her study and house as if it was a marvel. Not the leader—he was looking directly at her, while the others were more sparing in their eye contact.
"How can I help you?" Ashra asked and was met by silence for a moment. She knew exactly which one of them would speak. "I'm afraid I don't even know your name."
"Bryce," the man said with his typically narrowed eyes. He was young, couldn't be older than her.
"Mr. Bryce. You've come a long way to be here."
"There is battle at the moment," he said.
"I am aware." It surprised her that the people of Colmire knew.
"Battle to decide who gets to subjugate us."
Some of the others shifted uncomfortably where they stood, but not him. His eyes didn't shift from her as if he was surveying her reaction.
"Yes," she said. What was the point of denying it? It was true.
"This land used to belong to us before Raufasger came, and now he is gone. This land should belong to us again."
Ashra stared at him, seeing stubborn resentment in his eyes. What he was saying was understandable. "They won't listen," she finally said. "I have tried, but they only see this way."
"Then we must make them listen."
"What exactly do you have in mind, Mr. Bryce?"
"We take it back."
"Two armies are fighting against each other. Armies who would turn their attention on you in a heartbeat if you constituted a threat."
"Armies made up of our men. The Naufren are only men and they only have power because we give it to them. We outnumber them by a hundred to one if not more."
"Women, children and old men. Raufasger decimated any strength he could find."
"People are ready to end this. They simply need a rallying call."
Ashra sighed. "It's more complicated than that."
"Not, it isn't," he said sharply. "It's time to take our land back. And besides your lavish house and your position amongst these people, it was our people you came from, or have you forgotten?"
Chewing her lip, Ashra narrowed her eyes. "It takes more than anger to truly be effective. Unfortunately working within the system is more effective."
"There is no system right now, and it's time for a new one."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I am suggesting that you lead us."
"In a revolt?" she said with surprise.
"In taking our lands back," he urged. "We're here; we're ready to do something about it. The Naufren have shown, in no uncertain terms, how little they care about us. We're starving in the streets and they are playing games with each other."
"They are going to war. It is more than mere games."
"We're not playing anymore and the time to do something about it is now. It is time to act."
"Then why do you need me? Act. I will not stand in your way."
"Because it needs to be all of us. We need a beacon—someone strong. Someone people can get behind."
Absently, Ashra's fingers stroked her lips.
"We have spoken to others," he continued. "They agree with us."
"What others?"
"Others who are ready to end this. We will not be dirt under their boots anymore."
"What you're suggesting is insane. It will never work," she implored.
"It will work if we have a strong leader. You have been part of their world and if you turn against it, others will see. They will follow you. You have land, you have men."
Ashra chuckled in disbelief. This was the most insane thing she had ever heard. She couldn't turn against the whole citadel. They would be slaughtered. The guard would gather and ride against them. Not to mention Roisen and Wierstoke. Still, Mr. Bryce did have a point that both the armies were made up out of men who had no true loyalty to the Naufren.
The guard were still the prob
lem. They were highly skilled men whose main job was to quell revolt. But it was more than simply a revolt they were talking about here. This was a movement, a rise of the people to take on their subjugators. That is what all revolters said, though.
It would only work if they moved en masse. It couldn't just be a pocket. It had to be all of them.
No, this was insane. She wasn't a leader. Why did this man think people would listen to her? Because she had lived and survived within the citadel? Or was it because she fed them when no one else would?
This man had no love for her—that much she knew, but he was here because he knew she was needed. She had to be that rallying cry that moved people past their fears. What made him think people would follow her? Perhaps because they were desperate for a leader.
Doing this would mean destroying the whole system. It would not be some council of nobles that would lead them. It would mean getting rid of the nobles entirely. It was madness, but it was an alternative to a new liege who had absolute power over them.
"There were others you mentioned who are ready to support you. Who are these others?" she asked.
Chapter 9
THE THICK OF BATTLE was a messy affair. The noise was pervasive. Men screaming, even horses screaming. But mostly Roisen heard the beat of his own heart in his ears, his focus completely absorbed in where the next threat was coming from.
It was too much to take in at once, his attention competed between scanning for threat and focusing on finding his enemy. If Wierstoke were to die in battle, things would resolve very quickly. The man wasn't stupid, however—it was unlikely he would leave himself exposed.
Dark Court: The Final Hour Page 4