The Barons' War (Shattered Lands Book 3), page 29
“I need for you to join with Pembroke’s forces and reinforce him, at least along the Thunderhorn and its bridges, if not up into Kingsheart. We must protect the River Mark. Without us, the rebellion will fail. Edmund will crush Pembroke, then Sinclair, and then he will come for us. No matter what he promises now.”
Baron Montley frowned. “The rebellion weakens with each passing day. Why commit our forces to a losing cause when we could preserve them for the defense of our own lands?”
“Because if we try to stand alone, we will fall. Kingsheart is too big and has too many resources. We have our natural barriers, but a fraction of the population of the larger duchies. Aside from that, by now, you surely have heard the news that William has returned to Rendalia. That means he will be here with his army in the spring, putting a Whitton back at the front of the rebellion.”
“You mean putting a boy at the head of the rebellion,” Baron Montley said.
“Yes, he is young,” Alyssa admitted. “But Aldric believed in him completely. Even Pembroke deferred to him in Lynese once William proved himself. His return solves your concerns, as I know you have been unwilling to fully support either Pembroke or Sinclair. Aldric once told me that William was the truest successor to Gavric we will see in our generation, and was considering naming him to the throne, once this was all over. If you honor his memory and legacy, if you honor the good years my husband gave you, then you will honor his wishes in this matter.”
Some of the barons grumbled, exchanging uncertain looks, but none openly disagreed.
“But I say again,” she continued. “Giving ourselves over to Edmund’s persuasions is never an option. It will end with the death of River Mark, perhaps all of Sidor. What’s more, even if William returning solves some of our problems, we cannot wait for William and his force to make it back here. We must ensure there is something for him to return to, a rebellion still in progress, which, with the way things are going now, doesn’t look certain. So I ask you, for now, to ensure Pembroke and Garris continue with their rebellion, long enough, at least, to see William return to lead it.”
Again, the barons looked to each other, weighing her words. Baron Marlowe was the first to nod, then Baron Montley. One by one, the others followed, until even Baron Norcross gave a grudging tilt of his head.
“We will honor Duke Aldric’s memory,” Baron Marlowe said at last. “And support Pembroke until Prince William returns.”
One by one, they committed their forces, small numbers that together would make a difference. Alyssa felt the knot in her chest loosen slightly. It was not a victory, but it was a beginning.
“Thank you, my lords,” she said. “My husband would have been proud of your loyalty.”
Baron Fawcett reached for the letter from Edmund, still lying on the table. With deliberate care, he tore it in half.
“It seems I must draft a response to our king,” he said. “I expect it will be rather brief.”
A hint of grim humor passed between the men. They had made their choice, for good or ill. River Mark would stand with the rebellion, and with William Whitton. Spring would tell if they had chosen wisely.
Corlith, Darien Coast, Iron Keep
Garris Sinclair rode through the shattered streets of Corlith, his horse picking its way around debris and bodies. The morning’s battle had left a fresh crop of dead, but these were not the only corpses in the town. Others had lain rotting for days or weeks, some for months since the Icelanders first seized the town seven moons past.
A crude gallows stood in what had once been the market square, the wood weathered but the ropes fresh. Five bodies hung there, civilians by the look of their clothing. Not fighters, just townsfolk who had displeased their invaders in some way. Their faces had turned black, tongues protruding, eyes picked clean by crows.
“Savages,” muttered Sir Halward, who rode at Garris’s side.
Garris said nothing. He had seen worse during the war. Much worse. And he knew the Icelanders held the men from Iron Keep in equal contempt. In war, men on all sides found ways to become beasts.
The stone buildings flanking the main street had been put to the torch, their blackened shells now home only to rats and the wind. A woman’s body lay sprawled in a doorway, her skirts hiked up, throat cut. Garris turned his eyes away. The smell of death hung over everything, so thick he could taste it.
“My lord,” Sir Odran called as Garris approached. “We’ve secured the town. The remaining Icelanders retreated to the keep.”
Garris dismounted, handing his reins to a waiting squire. “Casualties?”
“Sixty-three dead, one hundred and eighty wounded.”
A high toll, but it could have been worse.
The keep ahead of him showed the scars of its capture seven months ago, one tower partially collapsed, sections of the outer wall crumbled. But the main structure remained sound.
“How many of them left?”
“Maybe five hundred, perhaps less. Most of their best fighters fell when we took the outer city. These are the dregs, but dregs with walls.”
“The rear postern gate?” Garris asked.
“Sealed. They collapsed the passage during their retreat.”
Garris studied the keep. An arrow flew from the battlements, landing ten paces short of their position as his men and theirs picked at each other, everyone knowing the last push was coming soon.
“Three groups,” he said finally. “Selgar, take four hundred men and the ram for the main gate. Halward, you’ll lead with the ladders on the eastern wall. Odran, the northern section.”
The captains nodded, understanding their roles.
They dispersed to prepare their forces. Garris walked the line, inspecting the troops and their positioning. The ram, a massive trunk capped with iron, required twenty men to carry it. The ladder teams checked their equipment, securing ropes and testing the wooden rungs. Archers sorted arrows, setting aside fire shafts wrapped in oil-soaked cloth.
Garris found Sir Lewys, a young knight from a minor house near Stormhaven, checking the reserve force’s formation.
“We’ll need to move quickly once a breach appears,” Garris told him. “Have the men ready to run. No heavy shields.”
“Yes, my lord,” Lewys said hesitantly.
Another twenty minutes passed with most of his men just outside of the range of the archers on the wall, while everyone prepared. Finally, everything was ready, and Garris signaled the horn-blower. The deep brass note sounded across the town, and his forces surged forward toward the keep.
The first arrows fell like black rain. Three men dropped immediately. Garris watched from behind a half-collapsed wall as his archers returned fire, targeting the battlements. The air filled with their hiss as they passed overhead. Men fell on both sides.
Selgar’s ram team rushed across the open ground, holding a wooden roof above their heads. Arrows thudded into the protection, but they kept moving. On the eastern side, Halward’s men carried ladders forward at a run, zigzagging to avoid being easy targets.
The northern assault under Odran faced the heaviest fire. They had fewer ladders because the damaged wall made it difficult to get a steady base, and the grapnel teams had less protection, needing both hands free to swing and throw their hooks.
The ram reached the main gate and the carriers positioned themselves. The first blow sounded across the battlefield, a deep boom that shook dust from the gatehouse. The Icelanders above dropped rocks and fired arrows at point-blank range, but the roof held over their heads for protection, held.
On the eastern wall, three ladders rose to lean against the stones. The first men began to climb while their companions provided covering fire from below. An Icelander appeared at the top of the nearest ladder, swinging an axe to dislodge it but an archer put an arrow through his chest. He fell backward, out of sight.
“The east wall weakens,” Lewys observed.
Garris nodded. “The Icelanders focus too much on the gate. They’re thinning their defenses.”
He signaled to a runner. “Tell Odran to double his efforts on the north. The defenders are shifting east.”
The ram struck again, splintering wood. A third blow, a fourth, but it held firm. The gate had been designed to withstand precisely this kind of punishment.
On the eastern wall, the first of Halward’s men reached the top. A brief clash of steel, then the soldier tumbled backward, head nearly severed from his body. The second man fared better, establishing a foothold on the battlement before two Icelanders rushed him. He parried one attack but took a spear through his side from the second defender.
The third climber, a large man with a round shield, managed to block a spear thrust and swing himself onto the battlement. Another soldier followed, then another. And then another and another. Five of Halward’s men secured a small section of the eastern wall before the Icelanders rallied, pushing them back.
Now was the moment to push the breakthrough.
“Lewys, take half the reserve to support Odran. I’ll lead the rest.”
He drew his sword and signaled his men forward. Fifty soldiers followed him toward the eastern wall, where the fighting grew desperate. Halward had lost a dozen men already, but more climbed to replace them.
Garris reached the base of the wall where the ladders leaned.
“With me,” he called, grabbing the nearest ladder and starting his climb.
An arrow whistled past his ear. Another struck his shoulder but failed to penetrate his armor. He kept climbing, one rung after another. In a fight like this, the commander leads from the front or his men would not push enough to break through. Beneath him, his personal guard followed.
He reached the top, and an Icelander rushed toward him. Garris drew his sword in one fluid motion and parried the attack, then kicked the man in the chest, sending him staggering backward. Garris swung himself onto the battlement.
The fighting on the wall was brutal, confined to a narrow space where neither side could bring their full numbers to bear. An Icelander lunged at Garris with a spear. He sidestepped and cut through the shaft, then drove his sword into the man’s throat.
“Hold this section,” he ordered as more of his men reached the top. “Don’t advance until we secure the entire wall.”
The Icelanders counterattacked, a fresh wave of defenders rushing from the northern section. They fought with the desperation of men who knew capture meant death. One of Garris’s guards took a javelin through the chest, falling against him. Garris shoved the dying man aside and met the next attacker.
Three Icelanders came at him together, but Garris had skill, decades of experience, and the finest armor money could buy in his favor. He cut the first across the face, blocked the second’s axe with his armored forearm, then shoulder-charged the third, knocking him from the narrow walkway to fall screaming to the courtyard below.
More of his men reached the battlements, pushing the Icelanders back. Garris saw Halward fighting twenty paces away, the knight had lost his helmet, and blood ran down his face from a cut above his eye.
A shout from below caught Garris’s attention. The ram team had finally splintered part of the gate, creating a gap barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Icelanders rushed to defend the breach, abandoning other positions.
Sure enough, with defenders pulled to the gate and eastern wall, the northern section stood nearly empty. Letting his men move past him to take the front in the fighting, Garris watched as Odran’s men threw more grapnels, finding purchase on the unmanned battlements. They climbed quickly, securing the position with minimal resistance.
The eastern section was nearly theirs now. The Icelander commander, a tall man with a black beard, directed the defense from the center of the wall until a crossbow bolt took him through the neck.
Garris’s own men surged along the wall, overcoming the last pockets of resistance. Garris spotted a postern door leading from the battlements to an interior staircase.
“This way.”
He led ten men through the door and down the stone steps. They emerged in the courtyard where chaos reigned. The fires started by his archers had set several wooden structures ablaze. Smoke drifted across the open space, partly obscuring the fighting.
With their commander down, the Icelanders were in disarray. Some men defending the north wall ran to the east wall which had all but fallen now, while some of the defenders on this side ran to stop Odran’s men from getting the rest of the way down from the battlement to the north gate and opening it from within.
Which meant that none of those men were where they would do any good at stopping his assault. A boon Garris would gladly take.
Garris and his soldiers hit a group of men trying to protect the postern gate from behind, cutting down three before they knew the threat existed. The rest ran, seeing themselves outnumbered, toward the keep itself, as if that would remain safe for long.
“To the gate,” Garris ordered half his men. “Open it for Selgar.”
He led the others deeper into the courtyard, toward the central tower after the retreating Icelanders. An axe-wielding berserker rushed at them from a smoke cloud, howling in rage.
Garris raised his sword to meet the charge, but a weight slammed into him from the side. He fell, rolling across the dirt as the berserker’s axe cut through the air where he had stood the moment before. Sir Odran had pushed him clear, taking the blow meant for Garris. The axe bit deep into Odran’s shoulder. The knight collapsed with a grunt of pain.
“Odran!” Garris scrambled to his feet as his men surrounded the berserker, cutting him down with coordinated thrusts. He knelt beside the fallen knight. The wound wasn’t as bad as it first seemed. It would take months to heal, but his armor had done its job.
“Get him to safety,” he ordered two soldiers. “Find a healer.”
The main gate crashed inward, wood splintering as Selgar’s men finally broke through. Fresh troops poured into the courtyard, overwhelming the remaining defenders. The Icelanders inside the keep slammed the doors shut, barring them and leaving their remaining countrymen exposed and vulnerable.
“My lord,” a soldier said, pointing toward a low building near the eastern wall. “We found prisoners.”
Garris made sure that Odran was being well treated by a healer before following the man to what had once been stables. Inside, the stalls had been converted to crude cells. A group of Icelanders lay dead in the center, a few paces from there a group of bound prisoners, most of whom looked like civilians, along with a handful of battered soldiers, sat in the barred pens.
“Free them,” Garris commanded.
As they were freed, one of the prisoners, a once proud and upright man who was now missing several teeth, pointed toward the central tower. Garris knew the man. He’d been Lionel’s father’s majordomo for nearly a decade and had taken up the role for the young noble when he succeeded his father.
“The baron. He’s still alive.”
“Where?” Garris asked.
“With the mayor and a few others. They were taken inside, into the dungeons, I think.”
Garris cursed. There was only one way to get to them, and the Icelanders had just barred the door to it. He returned to the courtyard where Selgar supervised the assault on the tower door.
“Target the windows,” Garris ordered the archers. “Keep them from firing down on us.”
Arrows flew toward the narrow openings in the tower. Inside, someone screamed as a shaft found its mark.
The door began to splinter under the persistent battering. Garris gathered twenty men.
“Come with me. We need to reach the dungeons before they execute the prisoners.”
The ram finally broke through, creating a gap wide enough for the men to enter single file. Icelanders waited inside, forming a defensive line at the base of the stairs. Selgar’s men pushed through the gap, engaging them in brutal, close combat.
“This way,” Garris said as Selgar’s men fought their way forward far enough to make a gap.
Down a side hallway, he found the entrance to the lower levels of the keep, a heavy door with iron bars, guarded by two Icelanders. The guards died quickly under the rush of Garris’s men. But the door refused to yield, locked and barred from inside.
“Break it down,” Garris ordered, hearing shouts and screams from below. “Now!”
Instead of taking time to go back for the larger ram, four of his men lifted a fallen beam from nearby debris, using it as a ram. It would do. This door was meant to keep men from getting out, not from invaders getting in, which meant the hinges went the wrong way and the barring was makeshift.
The door shuddered under the first blow but held. The second strike cracked the frame. The third broke through, revealing stone steps descending into darkness.
“Torches,” Garris ordered.
Two men lit brands while the others drew weapons. The smell rising from below turned Garris’s stomach, blood, excrement, and death. The prisoners had suffered in these dungeons for months.
He descended first, torch in one hand, sword in the other. The stairs led to a long corridor lined with cells. The flickering light revealed faces pressed against iron bars, sunken eyes in skeletal faces. Some cells contained only corpses in various states of decomposition.
At the far end of the corridor, he could see Icelanders moving from cell to cell, dispatching their occupants.
“Stop them,” Garris shouted, charging forward.
The executioners turned at the sudden appearance of the Iron Keep men. The corridor was narrow, forcing both sides to fight three abreast. Garris took the center position, his sword cutting through an Icelander’s leather armor to find the flesh beneath. The man fell back, clutching his stomach as his intestines spilled forth.
Another took his place, thrusting with a spear. Garris deflected the point and stepped inside the man’s guard, driving his sword up under the chin and into the brain. Blood fountained over his hand as he withdrew the blade.
“Chatsworth,” he called as they pushed forward. “Baron Chatsworth!”
