The Barons' War (Shattered Lands Book 3), page 17
They made it out of the building and across the grounds to the wall that surrounded the palace, finally reaching a small postern gate concealed behind a curtain of ivy that had crept in through cracks in the mortar. The gate was set into a thick section of the outer palace wall, forgotten by most of the household. One of the guards produced another key and carefully unlocked the heavy wooden door, which protested with a low groan.
Beyond lay a narrow alley between the palace wall and a row of modest buildings closest to it. The first hints of dawn lightened the eastern sky, turning the night’s black to a deep blue. Soon, the sun would rise, and her absence would be discovered.
“Stay close,” Galer whispered. “The streets will grow crowded soon.”
They slipped out into the alley, Galer securing the gate behind them. Isolde drew her cloak tighter as the cool morning air enveloped her. After a month in the stifling confines of the dungeon, the open sky above her head seemed vast and overwhelming.
The main North Gate would be heavily guarded, but Galer led them toward a less frequented section near the Traders’ District. Thankfully, there were enough people on the street that they didn’t stand out, but not so many that they were in danger of being noticed.
Twenty minutes later, they stepped through a gate passing between a series of wagons bringing goods to be sold during the festival into the city. The volume of traffic distracted the gate guards, who were more concerned with people coming into the city than leaving.
And just like that, she was outside the city. Galer led her down a smaller path, not the main road that led to nearby towns, finally veering across open ground to a small copse of trees, where a woman she’d never seen before held a string of horses.
She was a long way from being safe, but for the first time since this whole ordeal started, she finally felt a sense of hope.
Chapter 14
Devonport, Barony of Shalesport, Eastern Kingsheart
Garris Sinclair practically stomped through the halls of the large manor house, trying very hard not to let his rage overtake him. Newberry’s message had been urgent, but very light on details. Sinclair had almost ignored it. The fast progress he’d made after finally stopping and then reversing the Northerners’ progress at the Battle of Four Corners had come to a grinding halt.
The Icelanders were smart and weren’t trying to have a stand-up fight anymore. Instead, they’d dug themselves into the hills and were making him battle for every inch of ground. Ambushes, forced rockslides, and about every other trick they could pull were costing him men and time.
Time he didn’t have to be sailing here for whatever the annoyingly charming merchant prince had to say.
The man’s majordomo had directed him through to the parlor, and Sinclair hadn’t waited for him to lead the way. He pushed his way into the room with enough force to send the overly carved door slamming hard against the inner wall with a satisfying crash.
“I lost fifty men yesterday and I will probably lose more today. What can be so urgent that you have to pull me from the front but not so important that you can’t say what it is about in your message?”
“That was my doing,” a voice to his far left said.
Sinclair found himself momentarily at a loss for words, which was a feat in itself, as he watched the man step away from the hearth and into the light.
“I didn’t want my presence known until I could get back to the River Mark and get the duchy in order, so I asked the baron not to say I was the one requesting this meeting.”
Sinclair still found himself slow to get over the shock of seeing the man. He hadn’t received a wyvern or any other kind of message in more than a month, to the detriment of the entire rebellion. The man had a lot of nerve, dictating how he returned now.
“Pembroke,” Sinclair said, the name half question, half accusation.
The damnable man gave no expression in return, only saying, “Baron Sinclair.”
“We could have used you sooner.”
“I came as soon as I could.”
“Did you?” Sinclair looked up, meeting Pembroke’s eyes. “And yet not a word, no matter how many wyverns I sent. During which, Baron Trelwaney and half his men died at Middlewood and Baron Halbrok barely escaped with a third of his forces. So where have you been? We’ve needed you, especially since Aldric’s death. You took your time while Edmund’s army pushed deeper into the eastern baronies every day.”
“We’ve been working to get here, or do you forget how long it takes to sail from Lynese, especially when our enemy controls the northern half of the continent? We were forced to sail south around Thay, where communication would have been ill-advised.”
“Does that mean you brought the Rendalia army with you?”
“No. That wasn’t possible.”
“Not possible? Those men were left under your command!”
“They were, but that is very different than leading them into a war like this at home. They would follow William into the Maw itself. Without him, I can’t guarantee who the men would fight for. Many come from the western baronies, and it is a dangerous thing to ask men to question their allegiances in situations like this. They would do it certainly for William. For me … it’s unsure.”
“You could have at least brought all of the River Mark men with you. Or are you suggesting they would have had divided loyalty?”
“We had other limitations. Sailing around Thay requires discretion.”
“Then what exactly did you bring, or should we just be honored you graced us with your presence?”
“I brought my personal bannermen and a few others from neighboring baronies who could fit on the two ships we brought.”
“Which is?”
“Twenty-five sworn knights and a hundred and fifty seasoned infantry.”
“That few? A handful of men when we need … it doesn’t matter. What matters is getting the southern duchies back into the fight. Edmund’s forces have driven a wedge between the eastern baronies and the southern duchies. Halbrok still holds the Tradesway east of the Horn Road, but his position is tenuous. Meanwhile, the Icelanders have dug into the Darrien Hills and have started getting reinforcements from across the Narrows. I will deal with the Icelanders, and I believe we will break through and push them out of Iron Keep in the next two weeks. I want you to bring the men from Shadowhold and the River Mark to back up Baron Halbrok. Once you have stopped their advance, I want you to begin pushing them back to clear the path to Starhaven. Talk to the officers Aldric had with him. I’m sure his original plan is still viable.”
“I will talk to the barons and we will take your suggestions into consideration.”
“What?” Sinclair said, his train of thought halting as he heard the tone in Pembroke’s voice.
“Just as I said, we will take it under advisement. I need to talk to the barons and figure out what we need to do to protect the River Mark, and then determine what aid we can give to your efforts. We need to assess the situation first.”
“Their situation?” Sinclair’s voice was dangerously calm. “Their situation is war, Baron Pembroke. Your concern should be victory, which is what I am trying to achieve.”
“Nevertheless, I must consult them before making any commitments.”
“We don’t have time for consultations. We need those men in the field now.”
“I’m sure you do. What my barons need is assurance their sacrifice won’t be wasted.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I’ve had time to talk to some of the men who’ve been on the ground since you were reinforced by the baronies, who protected your rear and allowed you to strike back at the Icelanders. My understanding is while they have been fighting to push the Crown back, you’ve been holed up on the peninsula, fighting your private war.”
“My private war?” Sinclair’s face flushed with anger. “I started this rebellion! I stood against Edmund when everyone else accepted his heinous policies.”
“Only after he killed Thurston. Before that point you were happy to sit at home, kept safe from his tax collectors by your duke, who I notice is still in his castle, counting his days until he joins the ancestors. What has happened since then? My understanding is that most of the gains made were made under Aldric’s leadership. What gains has the rebellion seen since his death?”
“I’ve tied down the Icelander forces that would otherwise reinforce Edmund. I’ve secured the eastern flank so the rest of you could focus on Starhaven.”
“That’s one way to look at it. But if you want to lead all of the forces in opposition, you need to show that you contribute to it, preferably something that is not self-serving. So far, you’ve only benefited from other baronies joining your cause.”
“Benefited? Do you know how many of my men have died?”
“Less than those lost by your patrons. And I have to ask, how many more men will die without a clear path to victory? The truth is, Baron Sinclair, William Whitton is the only reason you aren’t hiding in the Shatterstone Mountains right now.”
“William Whitton is an upstart child who …”
“Gentlemen.” Newberry stepped between them. “We fight for the same cause. We face the same enemy. This discord serves only Edmund’s interests.”
The chamber fell silent. Sinclair glared at Pembroke, breathing hard through his nostrils. Pembroke returned his gaze steadily, betraying no emotion.
After a long moment, Pembroke spoke. “I will talk to the barons and see what I can do to get the war back on track, but I promise nothing until I have spoken to them.”
“Fine. Then I look forward to seeing you assert your authority and get those men moving.”
“I will do what I think is best,” Pembroke said, not waiting for a response as he marched past Sinclair and out the door.
“As will I,” Garris Sinclair said quietly to his retreating back.
Kasikskad, Rikshof, Werna
Barnabas Mercer crouched behind a half-collapsed wall, his cloak pulled tight against the late autumn chill. The excavation site was full today with acolytes sifting through dirt and stone, cataloging remnants of the past.
He wasn’t here to watch them, however. His interest was in only one of the scholars: Acolyte Tomas Volden.
Barnabas couldn’t help but notice how fine everything was that the acolytes had. Werna was a place richer than most places, but even for here, the level of riches was astounding. Tools made of pure gold and silver, equipment with inlaid jewels. The acolytes would, of course, assure everyone that it was necessary for some perfectly valid reason, but the acolyte was still holding a single tool that was worth more than Barnabas’ family had when they lived near the Silverhall sludge pits.
If this had been a few years ago, Barnabas wouldn’t have thought twice about killing the acolyte and taking the tools, melting them down and selling off bits. Now, it was his job to make sure that didn’t happen to the clueless man.
And that had started to become a problem.
They’d been watching Tomas for three days now, ever since arriving in Kasikskad. Edmund’s orders had been clear: Ensure the acolyte succeeded in his mission to locate some artifact and eliminate any threats.
In that time, the man had blundered into a possible mugging, and his rooms, left unsecured, had almost been ransacked. He was an easy target, and anyone with a mind to better their station could see it.
Movement on one side of the dig site caught his attention as a group of other acolytes, apparently separate from Tomas and on their own expedition, began to pack up their own tools.
“Tomas, we’re breaking for the evening meal. Will you join us?” one of the disciples asked.
Tomas barely looked up from the rectangular pit he’d been excavating. “No, I need to finish documenting this section before the light fails.”
“The artifacts will still be here tomorrow.”
“And so will I, once I’ve finished,” Tomas replied, dismissively but not unkindly.
His eyes remained fixed on his work as he carefully brushed soil from what appeared to be a small metal object.
The disciple sighed, exchanged looks with his companions, and departed with the others toward the Hall of Antiquity that overlooked the dig site from a nearby hill.
The crowds around the area, which was blocked off but still open for visitors to see, had started to thin out as the evening closed in and as others had a similar thought.
Barnabas continued to survey the crowd as he waited for the young acolyte to finally finish and go back to his lodgings. It was long, boring work. The man never seemed to take a break and was uninterested in anything other than his studies. He rose early, worked late, and spoke little to anyone. And most took no notice of him, off in one corner, hunched over and oblivious.
Which is why the three men dressed in loose-fitting clothing, the kind that would be perfect for hiding tools and goods from a picked pocket, drew his attention. They were loitering a little too long at the edges of the market square that bordered the excavation.
But it was their eyes that gave him the most pause. These weren’t the eyes of curious men, interested in relics of the past, hooded from hours in darkened rooms studying tomes by candlelight.
They were the eyes of a predator, and they were watching Tomas.
The first man, a hulking figure with a crooked nose that had been broken and badly reset, drifted through the market stalls, circling toward the north edge of the dig. The second advanced from the east, a thin, starved-looking man, feigning interest in pottery while his eyes never left Tomas. The third man, short but thick through the shoulders, moved around the far side of the site, as if he was observing it, even though it was clear he’d never had any interest in artifacts.
The men were clumsy and obvious.
Barnabas caught the eye of one of his men and tapped his dagger hilt twice, then pointed toward Crooked Nose. His man nodded and slipped back, disappearing into the thin crowd like a real professional should. Two more quick signals, and all three of his men were in motion.
Meanwhile, Tomas remained absorbed in his work, occasionally jotting notes in his leather-bound journal, with no idea of the danger coming toward him.
Crooked Nose paused at a produce stall, pretending to examine fruit, waiting for the right moment. As happens, the crowd thinned out enough that no eyes were on the dig area, or looking to go that direction. Crooked Nose saw it, too, and went into motion, putting the fruit down and moving toward the dig site and the oblivious acolyte. His movement must have been a signal because his friends matched his approach from different angles.
Barnabas felt a moment of pity for them. Whatever these local cutthroats hoped to gain, they’d never know what they’d stumbled into. A small commotion in the excavation pit drew Barnabas’s attention. The acolyte was very excited about something, but it looked like something dirt-colored lodged in more dirt.
Something only a man like that would find interesting.
It, however, provided more opportunity for the cutthroats, who picked up their pace. They began to close in on the dig site, just inside the roped-off area and less in view of the public, but Barnabas didn’t move.
His men had worked for him for years and didn’t need any kind of signal, and he trusted them to do their jobs. The cutthroats were about to make their move when hands they didn’t even see coming clamped over their mouths. For the thin man and the stocky man, that was shortly followed by a knife pushed between their ribs, up into their hearts.
Death for them was nearly instantaneous, before they could give a shout in alarm, his people catching them as they fell and dragging them out of sight, behind buildings just next to the dig site.
The leader didn’t follow his men as quickly. The number of cutthroats in this city was becoming a bit too dense, and it was time to find out where they all were. The hilt of a dagger had slammed into his throat the instant a hand went over his mouth, causing only a small gagging sound as he was momentarily stunned.
An arm hooked around his neck and began pulling him back, the blade of a knife joining it, pressing hard against his flesh to ensure cooperation.
Tomas, ever oblivious, didn’t even look up. They had scoped out the area when they’d first arrived to find a place for what they might need.
Barnabas followed down a set of stairs to what had been a cellar in an abandoned building set into the hillside. Meanwhile, his other two men dragged the corpses toward a shallow ravine behind the abandoned buildings that bordered the excavation site, dropping them between weeds and broken pottery.
At the bottom of the staircase, a wooden door hung from a single hinge, creating a dark space behind a crumbling wall, perfect for what they needed.
“Find something to bind him,” Barnabas instructed.
One of his men produced strips of leather from a pouch at his belt. They secured the thug, and then Barnabas ripped a strip from the man’s own tunic to gag him. No sense taking chances of their interrogation drawing unwanted attention.
“Keep watch over the acolyte,” Barnabas ordered one of the men when they returned from dumping the bodies. “You, watch the street.”
The two men disappeared as Barnabas drew his knife and sliced the man’s tunic open from neck to waist, exposing the pale flesh beneath.
“Listen carefully,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll remove the gag, and you’ll answer my questions truthfully and completely. If you lie or hesitate, I’ll take your eye. Then the other. Then your fingers and then pieces of your face until you cooperate or expire. Do you understand?”
The thief’s eyes darted about wildly, but he managed a jerky nod.
“How many others in your gang?”
“Go f…” was all the man got out before Barnabas nodded and his man put the gag back in swiftly.
With frightening swiftness, Barnabas reached forward, gripping the man’s head with both hands, and digging his thumb into the man’s eye socket, wiggling it, pushing and angling the digit to just the right spot.
