Part 5 (1/2)
The marshal knew the princes well, having trained all three to the sword. Ulrich fought like a bull, rus.h.i.+ng in at the slightest hint of an opening, while Griffin showed a cautious shrewdness, preferring a slow dance of parries and feints. G.o.dfrey, the third-born prince, was a follower, always mimicking his oldest brother. ”The council is called for treachery...and for war.”
Ulrich flashed a wolfish grin. ”So there'll be war then.”
”As sure as winter.”
”And the traitors?” The question came from Sir Gravis. Bald as an egg, his face as tough as boot leather, Gravis was a stern captain and a staunch friend to the king.
”All dead.”
More than a few made the hand sign against evil.
”Does the treachery stop at Cragnoth?”
The marshal met G.o.dfrey's stare. ”That's the question, isn't it? How far has the Darkness spread?” A murmur of unease ran the length of the table. ”It's hard to hold a castle when a traitor mans the drawbridge.” The marshal reached for a tankard of ale. Talk of treason left a bitter taste in his mouth.
”They say there was a note,” Prince Griffin's voice cut like a well-polished sword, ”a note pinned to the tower door, sealed with a red hawk.”
Rumors were hard to contain. The marshal nodded, reluctant to speak of the king's daughter; a mere girl had no part in war. ”The note told of Trask's corruption to the Dark.”
Sir Gravis nodded, ”A message from Lionel, no doubt, before they murdered him.”
Ulrich's stare smoldered. ”Yes, the king's chosen successor, struck down by his own men.” Scorn filled Ulrich's face, an ugly mix of ambition and jealousy. ”Death by treason. That must have been a mighty blow to the king.”
The marshal speared the prince with his gaze. ”The king mourns his son.”
”But would he mourn half so much for the rest of us?” Ulrich's face hardened like tempered steel. ”Or aren't we s.h.i.+ny enough for his liking?”
Ulrich talked like he fought, with broad smas.h.i.+ng strokes, but for once his words struck true. The marshal looked away, unable to deny it. The king's younger sons had been made of finer stuff, something s.h.i.+ny and n.o.ble. Tristan and Lionel both carried heroic glows that made other men rise above themselves, willing to dare the fiercest odds. Somehow that s.h.i.+ning characteristic had pa.s.sed over the older sons, as if the mold had been set but the metal wasn't quite right, leaving men of blunt iron instead of bright steel. The marshal shook his head, mourning the loss. The promise of the younger sons was gone, snuffed out like a bright-burning flame. Sometimes the G.o.ds were cruel. He reached for his tankard. ”The king needs all his sons.”
”Some more than others.” Ulrich scowled. ”They tell me Lionel has his own s.h.i.+eld grove, set on the south side of the mountains so that all travelers from Castlegard to the Crag can pay homage as they pa.s.s. Seems like a lofty honor for a murdered prince.”
The marshal's voice held a cutting edge. ”The king loved Lionel well.”
”I'll not begrudge the dead their due...but he is dead.” Ulrich's gaze narrowed. ”The king must name a new successor.” He leaned back in his chair, a warrior in his prime. ”I've always been the strongest, the best sword among my brothers. In times of war, it's strength that matters most. It's past time the king chose his first-born to rule.”
”Ayes” circled the table...but not from everyone. Gravis kept silent and so did Sir Mellott and Sir Lothar, while Prince Griffin merely watched through hooded eyes.
The marshal crossed stares with the first-born prince. ”The royal house of Anvril has ever ruled the maroon, but it has not always been the oldest who gains the throne.” He lowered his voice, a warning and a threat. ”The king alone decides his heir.”
A low murmur rippled through the great hall.
The marshal turned to find the king standing on the stairwell. New lines of grief were graven on his face but his eyes sparked like flint.
Benches sc.r.a.ped against stone. Almost as one, the knights rose to greet their king. ”The Octagon!” The shout echoed through the hall. King Ursus moved among them, nodding greetings and exchanging a murmur of words. Even in the winter of his years, the king roused a fierce loyalty among his men. Like a blazing hearth, the warmth of brotherhood swept through the great hall. The marshal stood with the others, proud to serve such a king.
The press of maroon cloaks parted and the king reached the high table. He nodded to the marshal, ”Osbourne,” and then took a seat next to Ulrich. His gaze circled the table, keen as sharpened steel. ”The signal fires have been lit. The council of captains is summoned for war.”
Knights of lower rank took their leave, nodding to the king, before moving from the high table. The great hall began to clear. The other captains joined them at the high table, Sir Boris of Holdfast Keep and Sir Dalt of the Ice Tower. Each captain commanded a tower or a keep along the Domain. They filled the high table, five captains and three princes, with the marshal seated beside the king. One chair remained empty...the chair of a dead prince.
Stewards poured tankards of ale and offered plates of roast lamb smothered in gravy. Baldwin, the king's squire, spread a map of the north across the heart of the table, tankards set at the four corners. Their work done, the stewards retreated to the staircase. Logs snapped and crackled in the two hearths, the only sound in the great hall.
The king surveyed his captains. ”I led a war host to Cragnoth expecting battle...but instead found only treachery and murder. The Mordant found a way to corrupt Trask and some of his knights. It seems he sought a back door for his army, an easy way into the southern kingdoms.”
The marshal eased back in his chair, watching the faces of the captains. Only Lothar and Boris, the last to arrive, looked surprised.
The king clenched his fist. ”This treachery cost us dear, the death of Prince Lionel and a score of loyal swords, but Cragnoth is ours once more. The back door is closed, secured against the north.” His stare circled the table. ”But I expect the Mordant will try again, the Octagon is summoned to war.”
Sir Lothar scowled. ”A war in winter. The Mordant strikes when it is least expected.”
”Exactly.” The king leaned forward, like a hawk stooped to the hunt. ”We must s.n.a.t.c.h advantage from treachery, heeding the warning.”
Ulrich grinned. ”Then you expect another strike at Cragnoth?”
”Of a certainty,” the king cast a sideways glance at his son. ”The Mordant never wastes an opportunity. He'll send a force against Cragnoth to collect the wages of treason.” His fist settled on the map, covering the painted symbol of the keep. ”When the Mordant finds his way blocked, he'll seek another route across the Spines.” His hand swept the length of the Domain, from Castlegard in the east to Salt Tower perched on the edge of the Western Ocean. ”With so few men, we must antic.i.p.ate the strike.” He turned to study his firstborn. ”If the Octagon was yours to command, where would you wager the bulk of our strength?”
Ulrich leaned over the map, casting a furtive glance toward Griffin, but the second son remained impa.s.sive. ”Cragnoth is our smallest garrison. By attacking the Crag, the Mordant proves he strikes at weakness, so I believe he'll try for a quick victory at Holdfast Keep or the Ice Tower.”
The king turned his gaze toward his second son. ”And you, Griffin?”
The prince did not hesitate. ”The mountain trails are perilously narrow at Holdfast and treacherous with snow at Ice Tower. An army would take the better part of a month to cross at either point.” The prince's gaze narrowed, a thin smile on his face. ”Since the subtly of treason failed at Cragnoth, I believe the Mordant will abandon a dagger in the back in favor of a battering ram.” He fingered his close-shaved beard. ”I believe he'll empty the north, bringing his full force against us at Raven Pa.s.s.”
A murmur of unease circled the table.
”A full a.s.sault in winter,” Sir Gravis shook his head, his voice skeptical, ”the Mordant has never been so bold.”
Prince Griffin answered. ”Winter is the perfect cloak for trickery. While most men sit by their hearths, polis.h.i.+ng their swords, the Mordant will march in full strength against us.”
Sir Gravis persisted. ”But in the dead of winter? His supply train will triple in size just to keep his army in wood for fires, let alone food.”
”He'll not bother with a supply train.” Every stare turned toward the king. ”He'll use the winter as a goad to his army.”
Sir Lothar tugged on his mustache, a frown creasing his face. ”Victory or death. They'll have to punch their way south or freeze to death in the steppes.”
The king nodded. ”Exactly.”
”Ruthless, very ruthless,” Lothar chuckled but the sound held no mirth. ”And the Octagon will bear the brunt of the madness.”
”As always.”
”Where will he strike?”
”Castlegard will never fall, he'll not wager an army against mage-stone walls. And all the other trails are too narrow.” The king's gaze settled on his second-born son. ”I agree with Griffin, he'll strike at Raven Pa.s.s.”
Ulrich scowled but he did not argue.
Sir Gravis leaned forward. ”Then you'll be wanting our men.”