Serpent's Strike (The Chronicles of Adalmearc Book 2), page 50
“If you say so, captain,” Brand spoke in a cold voice. “The walls are yours to defend as you see fit. Your garrison is yours to command. But the men placed under my command,” he said with emphasis on the last two words, “will take their orders from me.”
“You do not have authority here,” Theobald argued. “You are not even a knight! I am captain of the Citadel. The city is my responsibility to defend,” he said with a seething voice. “Every soldier here will do as I command, defend the city as I order them to!”
“You may very well believe that,” Brand told the captain, stepping towards the door. “But I suggest you ask the soldiers first before you make such assumptions. You may find that they disagree,” the lieutenant finished with an unimpressed expression and left the room.
When Brand approached his quarters with two kingthanes behind as had become customary, he saw a shape waiting outside his door. It was short, like a child, dressed in colourful clothes. Brand frowned slightly as the other person discovered him and all but leapt towards the squire and his protectors. The two kingthanes tensed for a moment, hands reaching for weapons at the sudden movement. As another moment passed, it was revealed to belong to the jester Baldric, and both squire and thanes relaxed.
“Baldric greets you,” the short man said with an overly complicated bow. “He trembles to be in the presence of such lordly might.”
“He may still himself,” Brand replied dryly, “since to him I am but a squire. Unless Baldric is considering joining the Star? Every man will be needed at the walls,” the young man smiled sardonically.
“Alas, one as short as Baldric may never reach for the stars,” the fool said sadly. “His lordship is kind, but Baldric knows better. He has known many descended from the first dragon, and Baldric can tell when he is in the presence of one,” the fool added with a sly look.
“I will take that as a compliment,” Brand acknowledged curtly. “Was there any other reason you sought to speak with me? I am somewhat weary.”
“Of course, of course,” Baldric hurried to say, almost dancing around as if incapable of standing still for too long. “Baldric merely wished to say that many among court, this one included, were hoping to see this young drake dining courtside.”
“I probably will,” Brand remarked, “since my sister will be taking her meals there. But tell me, why does this one care?” the squire asked, emphasising the last three words of the sentence.
“Baldric has seen many things,” the jester explained, weaving his hands around in the air and twisting his shoulders. “But that a dragon should hatch from an eagle’s egg, now that is the strangest yet. Nonetheless, here we are, a silver spur with kingthanes at his back and an army at his call. Maybe such a silver spur could use a cupbearer for his thirst or a fool for his amusement,” Baldric finished, and the squire gave him a scrutinising look, inspecting him with a curious glance.
“I make no such demands, nor have I such requirements,” Brand declared.
“Of course, of course,” Baldric nodded eagerly. “Nothing said, nothing claimed.”
“I may be too occupied with the siege to observe any meal routines,” the squire added.
“All will understand the burden of command and your absence,” Baldric said sagely.
“Very well. Depending on the circumstances, perhaps you may find me in the great hall. I bid you farewell,” Brand finished, giving a short nod before moving past the jester to enter his rooms. The kingthanes remained outside, taking up position and glancing at Baldric. He, in turn, gave a spirited smile and leapt away.
The following morning, the garrison marched onto the southern walls and prepared to be assaulted by the Isarn forces. Nothing immediate was within sight, however; none of the enemy soldiers could be spotted on the stockade built to enclose the city. Anxious, the soldiers kept their eyes glued towards any sign of movement, Brand, Theobald, and Fionn among them. One stood immobile gazing south, one hobbled around a little, restless, and the third paced around impatiently.
An hour passed until, at last, Theobald ordered scouts to investigate. It was a hard task to give, considering they only dared spare a handful of men, and they would be walking directly into territory held by the enemy. Eventually, some among the more experienced soldiers, men-at-arms all, volunteered for the task, and they were let outside the gate.
It was impossible to hide in the open land between the city walls and the siege camp. The scouts had been given some of the few available horses, and they could plainly be seen riding towards the stockade. From the gatehouse and the towers, their comrades watched them anxiously. Yet no arrows rained down on them as they reached the palisades, no spears suddenly appeared, no javelins were thrown.
The stockade was not tall; one of the scouts moved to stand on the back of his horse and was able to climb over the wooden stakes. The defenders remaining in the city, those with the sharpest eyes, could see him move back and forth, gazing everywhere. At length, he leaned over to speak to the other scouts, ostensibly reporting his findings. Finally, he moved towards the gate and opened it, letting his brethren inside the stockade. From there, they disappeared out of view, and the garrison had no choice but to wait until when or if the scouts returned.
In the end, it took hours before any word reached Middanhal again. Some of the defenders had been sent home to rest; others like Theobald, Brand, and Fionn had taken their meal in the gatehouse and received the scouts immediately upon their return.
There were many details for the outriders to relate, all the strands of the story they had finally managed to weave together. With an impatient noise from Theobald to prompt them, however, the scouts cut to the core of the matter. They had found the siege camp abandoned as well as what remained of the main camp of the Isarn army a few miles away. Only objects too heavy to transport with ease, such as the catapults, had been left behind. After searching beyond, they eventually encountered the reason for this.
The advance party of an army from Vale had been spotted far to the west, in the direction of Coldharbour. The main bulk was still beyond immediate reach, apparently, but presumably, Athelstan’s scouts had discovered what Theobald’s had as well. Rather than risk becoming trapped between Vale’s army and the garrison of Middanhal, suffering the same fate that Athelstan had unleashed upon Konstantine by assaulting his scattered troops conducting a siege, the commander of Isarn’s army had chosen to withdraw and consider his options.
“Well,” Fionn remarked prosaically, leaning against one of the crenellations while biting into a pod of peas, “as long as they keep scaring each other away, defending the city will be easy.”
“Take a strong body of men,” Theobald began to speak, “grab some axes, ride out, and chop those catapults into pieces. There is no need to leave them intact for whoever intends to besiege us next,” the captain commanded Fionn, who nodded in response.
“The siege towers?” Brand said questioningly, to which the captain shook his head.
“They are within range of our archers. Better to tempt the enemy to retrieve them and make it costly,” Theobald argued.
“As you prefer,” Brand deferred, though the vague smile on his lips belied his subservient attitude.
“How long until Richard returns?” the captain asked.
“The day after tomorrow at the earliest. Possibly the day after that,” Brand estimated. “Though if your messengers reached him, he will strive to make haste, no doubt.”
“If we are lucky, Vale and Athelstan will destroy each other for us,” Theobald pondered.
“If we are lucky,” Brand repeated; he gave a small, courteous nod and departed, followed as always by two kingthanes.
A handful of miles away, the Isarn army had made camp for the night. There were twice as many sentries posted as usual, and scouts on swift horses roamed the area despite the darkness, ensuring that no movements would go unnoticed. Although Athelstan had defeated the Vale army once before, he took no chances; especially not this close to Middanhal, with the risk that its garrison might become involved in any battle or possibly raid his camp while fighting the Vale army.
In his tent, Athelstan was studying a map of Adalrik. Occasionally his fingers moved over the terrain, hovering over the flat lands just south of the capital before the terrain became hilly between the rivers Cudrican and Sureste. Eumund was also present, but he was more agitated, sitting restlessly in his seat. “We were so close,” he spoke bitterly, clenching his hand into a fist. “I was on the wall. I was almost in the gatehouse itself.”
“There is no point in dwelling on it,” Athelstan told him without looking up. “What matters is the situation now rather than what it might have been.”
“I still do not understand how the Order could have retaken the city,” Eumund grumbled. “We left a thousand men or so. How could the garrison at the Citadel have overwhelmed them?”
“That is a question we will have answered once the city is ours once more. Again, retain your focus on the situation at hand,” Athelstan cautioned his nephew.
“Very well,” Eumund acceded. “Should we attack the Vale army? It went well last time.”
“I find it strange they would dare to return,” his uncle frowned.
“From what the prisoners told us, Vale’s nephew is a fool,” Eumund said casually. “I believe him capable of such a decision.”
“But he was a frightened fool,” Athelstan argued. “He turned tail and ran all the way to Coldharbour. Something must have given him the courage to face us again, most likely reinforcements. By now, the jarl must know that our army is not marching on Valcaster, freeing his troops.”
“We have defeated everything we have faced,” Eumund declared, reaching out to pour himself a cup of wine. “I do not fear any number of soldiers that Vale brings against us.”
“We should not let that spur us into carelessness,” Athelstan warned him. “We retreat further south until the river Cudrican. We can retreat beyond it if we need to, and until then, it will provide us with fresh water.”
“You think it necessary to retreat further?” Eumund asked, surprised.
“The Order remains an unknown factor in all of this. I will not risk them attacking us while we are engaged with Vale. We must accept the realities of our situation, Nephew.”
“You sound as if our plight is great,” Eumund frowned. “True, Middanhal is beyond our grasp for now, but surely its garrison is light. We saw that during our assaults. We will have to face Vale in battle sooner or later. Once they are defeated, we will retake Middanhal, and Father’s armies will reinforce us.”
“Our immediate goals have not changed, no,” Athelstan replied, “but our room to manoeuvre is greatly diminished. Should we be defeated, we can no longer retreat to Middanhal and our own lands. We will be besieged in Ingmond, where the population is hostile against us, and hope of relief is dim. Furthermore, the lord marshal remains in Hæthiod with five hundred knights and the Hæthian levies,” the old knight reminded the young.
“You think the lord marshal might abandon the campaign against the outlanders and march against us?” Eumund asked with doubt in his voice.
“I do not think it likely, but if we are trapped in Ingmond just on the other side of the border...” Athelstan gave a shrug. “I do not wish to find out. Hence, we cannot afford a single mistake. Every care must be taken. We must win the next battle, or this army and we with it will be hunted down.”
“We best make sure we win, then,” Eumund said casually, taking a sip of his wine.
“Indeed,” Athelstan said absentmindedly, his attention resuming on the map.
“Uncle,” Eumund began to speak with hesitation, “do you blame me for the failure of taking the gatehouse? When we assaulted Middanhal.”
Athelstan looked up at his nephew. “Do you think I should blame you?”
“Hard to tell,” Eumund replied. “Your plan to take the gatehouse was good, and it was my task to execute it, yet it failed. Same as how I was supposed to take the Citadel in the first place. I called a retreat on both those occasions because it seemed lost, and now that the castle garrison has retaken Middanhal...” his voice trailed off before he continued again. “I worry that my decisions have twice over cost us control of the city.”
Athelstan sat silent for a moment. “Remember what I have told you,” he began to say, “about the most important quality a good captain possesses?”
“Good lieutenants,” Eumund answered without hesitation.
Athelstan nodded. “A captain is only as capable as his lieutenants. Before a battle, he may devise strategies and tactics. However, once it has begun, a battle is decided on the front lines. A good strategy can only bring you so far,” he told his nephew. “You must trust your lieutenants to act and react according to how the battle develops. Could we have taken the gatehouse and thereby the city if you had pressed on rather than retreated from the walls? Possibly,” Athelstan granted. “But it was also possible that you and my strongest warriors would have been slaughtered or imprisoned, and I would have been left without my best lieutenant,” he continued. “You deemed it most likely that the latter would have happened, and so you called a retreat. I trust your decisions, Eumund. Else I would have stripped you of your rank and responsibility.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Eumund said, sounding relieved.
“Do not let doubts concerning past decisions cloud your mind. It will make you indecisive in battle, which is the worst quality a commander can have. Cast these thoughts aside that you may rest soundly,” Athelstan ordered him. “We have trying days ahead.”
“As you say, Uncle,” Eumund assented and left to do as commanded.
30
THE VELVET GLOVE
COLDHARBOUR
Earlier that week, while Athelstan was preparing his assault on Middanhal, the Vale army was still recovering from its defeat and had retreated into the safety of Coldharbour, tending to their wounded. Other than that, they had done little else except cause trouble for the local inhabitants. The appearance of Athelstan, his capture of the siege camp and its engines, his usurpation of their stated goal of besieging Middanhal, all of it had left Konstantine aimless.
Coldharbour was not large enough to warrant an Order garrison; it did not hold specific strategic interest like Tricaster, and it was not considered a source of sedition. It had a small keep manned by soldiers employed by the jarl of Vale, and the rest of the city was built around its harbour. From the east, the river Cudrican streamed towards the city and here met the great river Mihtea. That river, in turn, flowed through Middanhal southwest in this direction, and just north of Coldharbour, the river made a sharp drop. This kept ships from sailing further up the river; hence, any shipped goods destined for Middanhal had to stop at Coldharbour and continue over land. Considering the endless stream of trade flowing towards Middanhal, this was an oft occurrence, at least in times of peace. Now, the only ships that docked in Coldharbour were those belonging to the jarl of Vale, and their purpose was not trade but war.
Since the port was the very foundation of the existence of Coldharbour, nearly everything in the city was directed towards it. The keep was not part of the city walls and outer fortifications as in many other places; instead, it was built separately inside the city, central to the location of the harbour so that its towers had full vision and reach of the many ships moored by its piers. The grandest house lay right by the water and belonged to the alderman of the guilds, the highest local authority in Coldharbour. The guilds chose the alderman and, thus, the ruler of the city; however, since the city lay in the jarldom of Vale, the alderman was also the jarl’s representative and, to some extent, accountable to the jarl for how the city was run.
Konstantine had eschewed staying at the keep, opting for the more luxurious rooms available at the alderman’s estate; as the heir to the jarl and thus his future lord, the alderman had not been in a position to refuse. Arion, an ever-present shadow to Konstantine, had also been given a room in that house with a desk to write his reports. When not occupied with such, the chamberlain could usually be found on the roof of the house, watching the docks.
Finally, some days after the arrival of the Vale army to Coldharbour, Arion walked slowly through the corridors of the house until he reached Konstantine’s room. He knocked loudly, waiting for an answer. When he was not given leave to enter, Arion knocked again with increased fervour.
“What is it?” a voice yelled from inside, which, despite it being noon, sounded rusty from sleep.
“Milord, you should prepare,” Arion said through the closed door.
The sound of shuffling could be heard before the door opened to reveal Konstantine wearing a nightshirt. As one hand opened the door, the other reached out to grab a wineskin. “What?” the youth asked surly.
“A ship has just docked,” Arion began to explain.
“Hardly worth disturbing me for,” Konstantine complained.
“Upon its mast is the personal banner of Vale,” Arion elaborated.
The wineskin almost slipped through Konstantine’s hand. “My father or my uncle?”
“Who can say?” Arion shrugged in ignorance.
“I need to get to the keep,” Konstantine said, glancing around as if searching for something. “And clothes,” he added, putting the wine away to pull his nightshirt over his head.
“I doubt that will be necessary,” Arion told him, turning around while the young nobleman changed clothes. “Whoever is arriving, I expect they will come straight here.”
“How can they know I am here?” Konstantine asked puzzled, pausing his movements out of bewilderment.
“I wrote it in the accounts I send to your uncle, naturally,” Arion said with a voice carrying the tone of explaining something obvious. “He or your father should be here any moment. You should finish getting dressed, milord,” he added with a smile that Konstantine could not see.
