Yeslnik gave a deep breath and slouched his shoulders, his whole body relaxing. He walked over to his wife as she turned back to her large mirror and retrieved her powder box. He grasped her thick flesh at the base of her neck and began kneading it with his fingers. The woman paused in her powdering.
“You always know what to say to make it better,” Yeslnik said quietly, bringing his lips to Olym’s ear and nuzzling there as he finished speaking.
Olym went back to powdering. “Yes, my king, and you always seem to need reminding,” she answered somewhat distantly.
“I should be quick and away this morning,” he said. Olym’s eyes widened, and she looked at his reflection in the mirror curiously.
“I shan’t allow Bannagran and Milwellis to have all the fun in killing the little beasts,” said Yeslnik, and as a smile widened on Olym’s face, he added, “I do so love the smell of blood on my sword.”
For a large woman, Queen Olym could move with speed and grace, and she did so then, rising and spinning out of her seat to bull-rush Yeslnik halfway across the room where they tumbled together onto the cushiony bed.
Sometime later, King Yeslnik ran along the wall of Castle Pryd, excited by the news. He came to the northeast tower and took the stairs to and three at a time, finally gaining the roof, where his lookouts greeted him, pointing excitedly to the northeast, where a large encampment could be seen just off the riverbank.
“Laird Bannagran has come,” Yeslnik said with a wide smile.
“No, my king,” a lookout corrected, and Yeslnik snapped a glare over him.
“It is Prince Milwellis of Palmaristown, King,” another man explained. “He has swept the riverbank clear of powries as his fleet has scoured the river.” The man pointed upriver, directing Yeslnik’s gaze to the flotilla of warships barely visible in the foggy distance.
“Milwellis?” Yeslnik murmured, trying to make sense of the distance and the trials the man must have conquered to have come so far so fast. “Prepare my coach, prepare my army! We march this day!”
He rushed from the tower, and what a glorious morning it had been! He could hardly wait to tell Olym of the news, and he wondered if he had enough time before the arrangements for departure were completed to enjoy the company of his wife once more.
He didn’t, for his army, bottled up inside of Delaval City all these days while reports of powries swept in from all along the Masur Delaval, was more than ready to march. The eastern gates of Delaval City swung wide and the grand parade flowed forth, endless lines of horses and chariots and marching footmen. In their midst rode Yeslnik and Olym, inside a gilded and armored coach, surrounded by the finest horsemen of the king’s army, their bronze spear tips shining brightly in the morning light. Right behind that group rode Father De Guilbe in a coach no less decorated, monks flanking him on either side, chanting with every step.
As they neared the encampment, soldiers all about buzzing that it was indeed Milwellis, whispering with awe that he had come so far and so fast and had so thoroughly dispatched the wretched powries, Yeslnik bade his coachmen to drive on harder. Before the sun had crested overhead, Yeslnik found himself seated beside his wife on the top of his ornamental coach, where a pair of thrones had been set. From on high they watched Milwellis’s approach, the man riding up in a fine chariot, General Harcourt driving a second by his side.
“I would not have thought you could travel so far south so fast, battling powries along the way,” Yeslnik bade his general as Milwellis and Harcourt dismounted and handed their reins to attendants.
“They are insignificant gnats to the army of Palmaristown,” Milwellis answered as he arrived at the side of the coach, before and below the king and queen. Father De Guilbe moved up to stand beside him, offering a slight nod of greeting. “We slaughtered them every step and left them rotting by the riverbank, or”—he glanced to his right, out toward the Masur Delaval and the many warships shadowing his march—“drowned in the dark and cold waters.”
Milwellis again glanced all around, hiding a smile, it seemed. “My king,” he asked, “do you think it wise to be so prominently displayed?”
Yeslnik’s face screwed up with confusion. He glanced to Olym, who snapped at Milwellis, “Should he grovel with the peasants?”
“No, of course not, my queen,” the Laird of Palmaristown answered. “It is just that an enemy archer might spy him from afar up there, and yourself as well.”
That had the two nobles shifting nervously, and Yeslnik calling for a ladder.
“And I am keen to such loss,” Milwellis went on, though Yeslnik wasn’t really paying him much heed.
“You said that the powries were slaughtered,” Yeslnik scolded, gingerly making his way down the ladder, pointedly before his wife.
“They are.”
“Then what archers need I fear?”
“Word from Chapel Abelle has not reached this far south,” Harcourt remarked to Milwellis, and that had Yeslnik and Olym exchanging concerned glances and made De Guilbe shift and turn to face the pair from Palmaristown directly.
“Dame Gwydre has come forth, my king,” Milwellis reported.
“What?” Yeslnik stuttered. “I told you to keep them imprisoned in their walls! Can you not perform the simplest of duties, Prince of Palmaris—”
“Laird of Palmaristown,” Milwellis dared interrupt, and the weight of his words did, indeed, excuse the indiscretion.
“Where is your father?” Father De Guilbe demanded.
“Dead before the walls of Chapel Abelle,” said Milwellis. “We turned as you ordered,” he added, looking back to Yeslnik. “To the river and the powrie threat. And soon after our departure, the witch of Vanguard struck.”
“She coordinated the assault with her powrie minions!” De Guilbe insisted.
Yeslnik growled, Olym gasped, and Milwellis nodded, not about to disagree. “My father was slain before the walls, his force overwhelmed.”
“Surely you do not blame me!” King Yeslnik demanded, and he even stamped his foot to accentuate his point.
“No, of course not, my king,” Harcourt interjected.
Milwellis was glad of that, glad that his advisor had given him the moment to compose himself before he had uttered something ungraceful to the King of Honce.
“The powries had to be defeated,” Milwellis agreed. “It was the only course, particularly since Bannagran of Pryd has not found his way to the river.” He glanced at Harcourt as he finished the sentence, and the older man gave him a wink of approval.
“I rode from Chapel Abelle to protect Palmaristown, to serve the minions of my father and my king, and to protect the walls of Delaval City,” Milwellis went on. “The death of my father is the doing of Dame Gwydre alone, and I will have her head in recompense. As the Laird of Palmaristown, I demand no less.”
“Yes, it is your city now, I suppose,” Yeslnik replied. He paused and tapped his fingers to his lips, nodding and thinking. “Your father was a great man. My uncle, the King of Honce, spoke of him often as a fine ally and friend.”
Milwellis knew the phony ploy for what it was, of course, but he accepted the truth of Yeslnik’s words, inadvertent though it might be. Given Milwellis’s ambitions for the glory of his city, it was good to have the King of Honce speaking of Panlamaris in such a positive manner.
“And so my father oft spoke of Laird Delaval,” he replied.
“King Delaval,” Yeslnik quickly and sternly corrected.
At Milwellis’s side, Harcourt gave a curt bow. “Even before he wore that mantle, King Yeslnik,” the general explained. “For many years, Laird Panlamaris viewed your uncle as a great and powerful ally.”
That seemed to satisfy Yeslnik, but Milwellis remained tensely staring at the foppish man.
“Where is Laird Bannagran?” Milwellis asked. “My march has been full of enemies and battles at every mile, yet all that Bannagran has faced before his great army are the miles of empty land!”
King Yeslnik answered him
with a long silence and stare, one that revealed nothing of Bannagran, but much of Yeslnik’s own displeasure that the Laird of Pryd had not yet arrived.
“What good my march, then?” Milwellis pressed. “We risked the wrath of our most powerful foes in their fortress of Chapel Abelle. Laird Panlamaris paid for that risk with his life, as he rushed to sweep clear the river and bank of the wretched powries. Palmaristown paid dearly for the good of King Yeslnik’s kingdom, while Bannagran and Pryd Town sit quiet and content.”
For a moment, it seemed as if King Yeslnik meant to lash out verbally at the malcontent Milwellis, but he calmed quickly.
“As soon as Laird Bannagran is finished with Ethelbert, I will pull back my legions from him,” Yeslnik said.
Milwellis waved the thought away. “Forget Laird Ethelbert at this dark time,” he advised. “Your more dangerous foes are Dame Gwydre and the monks of Chapel Abelle. The prisoners incarcerated there have joined their ranks, so say those who fled the field, and the witch of Vanguard has more tricks to play, I am sure. Ethelbert is in his hole, and there he will stay. Send a fleet to blockade him so that no supplies or mercenaries come to him from Behr but eliminate the more immediate threat, I say.”
“Laird Ethelbert guided the assassin who murdered my uncle!” Yeslnik argued.
“And you have punched him back into his hole,” Milwellis replied. “Command the center, my king. You cannot safely stretch your line with Dame Gwydre running free so near to Palmaristown, to Pryd Town, and to Delaval City.”
That last reference had the always nervous Yeslnik stiffening a bit.
“The brothers of Abelle can weaken your high walls with their gemstones, do not doubt,” Milwellis continued.
“We have brothers to counter!” Yeslnik shouted at him, and the king turned to the hulking Father De Guilbe for support. Indeed, De Guilbe was all too glad to stick out his chin and cross his large arms over his large chest.
“If you gathered all of the brothers loyal to Father De Guilbe of all of the chapels across Honce, they would not come near to matching the magical prowess of Artolivan’s skilled monks. Most of the older brothers have fled or gone into hiding, their old loyalties to Chapel Abelle holding firm. And not all the other chapels of the world combined have near the quantity or quality of the gemstones at Chapel Abelle. This I know from the brothers of the Chapel of Precious Memories, and this you, too, know, Father De Guilbe.”
King Yeslnik seemed quite taken aback at being spoken to in so blunt a manner. He looked to De Guilbe again and saw that much of the man’s puffery was no more. Father De Guilbe seemed smaller in that moment of truth, for, indeed, Milwellis had spoken truly, and all there knew it.
“And so you believe that these few hundred brothers and prisoners, led by a witch from Vanguard, will threaten the power of my kingdom?” Yeslnik asked with as much skepticism as he could manage.
“Preposterous!” Father De Guilbe added.
“I believe that they can cause great mischief,” Laird Milwellis replied coolly. “No more than a few hundred powries crawled out of the river, and they brought great distress to Palmaristown and to every port between my city and your own. Gwydre and Artolivan are smarter than powries—and more dangerous—with a host of monks and their gemstone magic. They won’t slaughter haphazardly and send more folk running to King Yeslnik for safety. Nay, they will carefully pick their fights, perhaps against the lairds most loyal and the chapels turning to Father De Guilbe’s vision of Abelle. And as they defeat those chapels, how many converts will they win and how many more gemstones will they place in their arsenal? Your course, our course, is clear, my king,” he finished dramatically. “The garrison of Palmaristown is on the march, as is the army of Delaval City. The witch has come out of her hole, and so we must put her back into it and then tear the walls of Chapel Abelle down around her.”
A long pause ensued, with Milwellis staring at Yeslnik, not blinking at all. More than once did King Yeslnik avert his eyes, and more than once did he bring his fingers to his lips, tapping nervously.
“I gave Laird Bannagran two legions,” Yeslnik said at length. “To you I give three—four! Four of my eight remaining, to hunt down Dame Gwydre and be done with her and to tear Chapel Abelle to its foundation so that Father De Guilbe might rebuild it in my image.”
Despite his impassive façade, Laird Milwellis could not help but gulp at that surprising and most welcomed proclamation. Four legions! Twenty thousand soldiers to join his Palmaristown thousands! He would sweep the land with such a force, overwhelming any and all who came before him.
Even Chapel Abelle. When he had made the demand to destroy the place to Yeslnik, it was more symbolic than realistic—could any army tear down the fortress of Chapel Abelle?
Milwellis didn’t know, but with more than twenty-five thousand warriors at his command, suddenly it seemed quite possible.
“Finish the powries, if any remain,” King Yeslnik commanded him. “Then win the war, however you need do it. Kill the witch Gwydre. March to Vanguard if you must to finish her! When you see the moment of triumph before us, go to aid Laird Bannagran and finish the dog Ethelbert. Crush Chapel Abelle! These are the charges I give to you, General and Laird Milwellis. You are my most trusted commander now. You have proven your worth against the powries and the loyalty of your city in the great cost it has endured for the sake of my kingdom. While Bannagran tarries, Milwellis shines as brightly as the sun. I put in your charge the garrison of Delaval City, the mightiest army the world has ever known. Win the war, Laird Milwellis, and your reward will be as great as anything you can imagine.”
Beside Milwellis, General Harcourt nearly swooned. He stared at his young laird, this man who had so expertly manipulated King Yeslnik to the gain of Palmaristown, with open admiration. He knew at that moment that the time of training Milwellis had ended, that Prince Milwellis had truly become Laird Milwellis, and, he suspected, that Laird Milwellis would outshine even Laird Panlamaris.
“But leave no enemies a clear march to Delaval City,” Yeslnik added.
Harcourt did well to hold his chuckle at that typical Yeslnik reaction. The man still had more than twenty thousand warriors surrounding him, behind walls as tall as those of Chapel Abelle itself. And yet, with the foppish Yeslnik, for all his legions and visions of total conquest, ever there remained the fear.
No matter, Harcourt thought and Milwellis agreed, indicating so with a smirk to Harcourt. To both men, it seemed clear that Palmaristown’s greatest glories lay right before them.
TWENTY
The Art of Compromise
The Highwayman and Dame Gwydre entered Pryd Town late the next morning, without fanfare, without much recognition. Bransen even took care to disguise his revealing clothing for the sake of Dame Gwydre, nervously walking at his side.
He noted that Gwydre, too, had retreated to a disguise (though, of course, none in these parts knew her at all, anyway), putting up the hood of her traveling cloak so far forward that it covered not only her hair, but much of her profile, as well.
How could she not be nervous? Bransen asked himself as they crossed the northern fields, through an endless sea of tents.
“How many?” Gwydre asked quietly from under the hood. “Pryd is more powerful than I had imagined.”
“Most are from Delaval,” Bransen explained. “I learned that Yeslnik granted Bannagran a sizable force so that he could rid the world of Laird Ethelbert.”
“So many,” Gwydre said, her voice full of trepidation.
Bransen took her hand and she squeezed his tightly.
“If every man and woman of Vanguard took up arms, I could not hope to lead them to victory against such a force as this,” Gwydre said. “So many! I could not imagine . . .”
“Yeslnik can muster several times this force,” Bransen heard himself reply, and when Gwydre squeezed his hand tighter, he felt foolish, indeed, for divulging that disturbing truth.
“We cannot win,” Gwydre whispered.
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“We have to win,” Bransen whispered back. He stopped walking and looked at Gwydre, drawing her gaze to his own. Silently, they stared and nodded, “tying iron to their bones” as the old saying went.
“Surely this force could sweep Laird Ethelbert away,” Gwydre remarked when they began walking again.
“The city is well defended, and by desperate men with their backs to the sea. Bannagran would defeat him, but it would not be without great cost to this army, large as it is. Of course, if we have our way, Bannagran will never again march to the Mirianic.”
“Why did they turn? Why are they are back here in central Honce?”
“Recalled because of the powrie fight, so revealed Brother Giavno. Resupplying and preparing to march again, but to the west and the river, not east.”
“You believe this to be a good thing for our cause? The coming of the powries, I mean.”
Bransen had no answer for her, but he doubted that Bannagran was thrilled at being pulled back from a campaign. They would know soon enough, he reminded himself as they crossed onto the main road of the town proper, Castle Pryd looming before them.
“Here, but I thought you had run off from us, Highwayman,” said one of the four sentries at the front gate, which was open but imposing nonetheless. “Not that many wanted you along for the march.”
“Hardly that,” Bransen lied. “There were more important matters to attend.”
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