Kinghood

By Joshua Rutherford

Prince Jameson finds himself tested. As commander of his father’s army, he has been charged with repelling a raiding force to the north of their island nation, Marland. Yet upon arriving at the landing site and scouting the enemy, the Prince discovers that the opposition – a barbarian force from the rogue confederation of Lewmar – is much larger and better equipped than he had ever imagined.
Outnumbered and facing the prospect of being overwhelmed, Prince Jameson mounts a daring plan to bait and trap the enemy. The audacious scheme works, securing the safety of the island while proving the mettle of the young prince.
Prince Jameson returns to the capital, Arcporte, victorious. Upon his arrival, he is welcomed by his father, King Audemar of Marland. The king throws a lavish banquet in his son’s honor. All seems to be coming into place for the young prince.
Until he ventures underground to Terran.
Terran. A labyrinth of tunnels and caverns beneath Arcporte Castle. It is there that the prince, whose birth name is Symon, returns to give a report of the week’s events to his identical siblings.
Symon and his three brothers – Dawkin, Ely and Gerry – are quadruplets alike in appearance yet different in personality. Together, they serve their kingdom under the guise of one royal, Prince Jameson. Among the four, Symon is known as the warrior, Dawkin is the scholar, Ely the romantic and trickster, while Gerry is considered the runt of the litter. Since birth, the identity of the four has been kept secret, with each rotating to appear in the kingdom above for a predetermined period. Such an arrangement has allowed the four to grow and develop unscathed through their princehood so as to prepare for the day when they must rule in their father’s stead.
Their skills – particularly in diplomacy – are put to the test when King Felix and his court arrive in Arcporte for the signing of the trade agreement. In the ensuing days, the four brothers take their turns meeting Felix and the rest of the Ibian court. During this brief period, tragedy strikes when King Audemar falls ill during trade talks. Later, it comes to light that the king was poisoned. The Saliswater brothers hold out hope for his recovery until a second assassination attempt – right under their noses in the family castle – finally claims their father’s life.
With two assassination attempts within days of each other, and one succeeding, nobles from near and far begin to question the competency of Prince Jameson. The Saliswater brothers scramble to secure the support of their domestic allies while working to assure King Felix and his family that they remain safe. Their efforts are strained further when reports arrive in the capital of another Lewmarian raiding party landing on the northern shores of Marland. The latter incident prompts the country’s assembly of Marlish nobles, the Conclave of Barons, to call a special session into order so that they may determine the fate of Prince Jameson’s claim to the throne.
As such problems demand unilateral responses almost simultaneously, the brothers are faced with hard choices on what to do. After much discussion, the Saliswater brothers agree on a course of action they were encouraged since birth not to take: to have more than one ascend at the same time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Rutherford
• Release date: Apr 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781947937475

Joshua Rutherford

Joshua Rutherford has wanted to be a writer all his life. Through college and the more than dozen jobs that he has had, his passion for the written word has never ceased. After crafting several feature film screenplays and television pilots that were never produced, Joshua tried his hand at writing a novel. Sons of Chenia is the product of that effort. When Joshua is not writing - which isn’t often - he is spending quality time with his wife, Elisa. The two currently reside in Austin, TX.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

This novel was a labor of love, born out of the support I received from several people over the years. While there are enough to name to fill an entirely different book, I will try to acknowledge as many as I can here, while a multitude of others will receive my thanks in person. First, to my parents, whose steadfastness has been imprinted on me since infancy. Secondly, there are my friends, who range from writers to readers to others who just love a good story. A special thank you to my friends from high school and college - Greg Gibsen, Danny Hawn, Visva Huynh and Tom Buaas – as well as my writer friends – Andy Peloquin, Rusty Trimble, Adam Lottes, and Cali Gilbert – to name a few. I also want to acknowledge those friends I have made through Toastmasters, who have been some of the strongest advocates of my writing dream. Then there are my wife and two boys, who are my North Star, my Falcon, and my Compass. They guide and enlighten me, stir my soul, and give me hope through the darkness. To them I owe everything.

Prologue

If only I could calm the sea. To stretch out my hand and command the waters to lay still. If they were to listen... what power would that be! By Mar himself, nothing less than godly.

Alas, I am no god. I am only a king.

Bloody hell.

One thought overlapped another, suppressing Audemar’s best judgment and wearing his patience thin. As another wave broke against the hull of their flyboat, he shuffled backward, bracing himself against the mast.

Damn it! he yelled, loud enough for his voice to cut through the wind and rain to reach the oarsmen. The twelve exchanged nervous glances with each other but dared not to make eye contact with their sovereign.

The First Mate also avoided staring at the king, choosing instead to focus on the tiller. However, he had little recourse when Audemar turned and stepped up to him.

This boat is barely fit to sail a canal, let alone survive a squall.

Yes, Your Majesty, was the Mate’s only reply.

Audemar ground his teeth. He looked past the First Mate, catching sight of the silhouette of Battlewhale against a lightning-streaked sky.

The flagship listed to its left. It’s taking on more water, Audemar realized. To think this was my best option.

Audemar whipped around to once again lay eyes on the turbulent waters. He felt in no mood to face any of his men as his anger seethed. He had hoped the Battlewhale and the small entourage that accompanied the flagship would have made it back to Arcporte unseen by the enemy. In fact, it nearly had – more than three quarters of the voyage – before a small flotilla chanced upon them. Sporting the head and tail of the fox, Kin Foleppi, the ships descended on Audemar’s modest force with speed and accuracy. The results of the surprise attack were devastating: two of the four galleons sunk, as did four of the six galleys and seven of the ten flyboats, not to mention the considerable damage the Battlewhale sustained. Kin Foleppi suffered heavy losses as well, losing more than half their fighting force before withdrawing. However, their boats were little more than skiffs, outfitted with all manner of incendiary devices and designed to wreak havoc rather than survive.

The flags of Kin Foleppi remained etched in Audemar’s mind. He shut his eyes, a vain effort to discourage himself from remembering all the ways the rulers of Tosily had devastated his rule and bloodline. By Mar, he told himself, I must stay strong. For I am a monarch. I am a Saliswater.

Is that enough? Audemar asked himself, his doubt raising its voice.

It must be.

Audemar contracted his lips. He caught the furtive glances of the First Mate and the two oarsmen closest to him. He pulled the collar of his coat tightly around his neck, all the while trying to convince himself his words had not reached their ears.

Knowing his anger did not serve him, nor his doubt, he closed his eyes. He dug deep within his soul, searching for that elusive shred of hope.

Please, Mar, he prayed. May my feet touch Marlish soil once more. May I walk the parapet of my home. Embrace my wife. And hold my...

The light! The light!

Audemar opened his eyes to find the First Mate standing tall, pointing to the distance beyond the bow. Audemar stood in unison, ignoring the threat of falling overboard. He scanned the unmarked horizon, finding only darkness.

Suddenly, it flashed. Bright it was, before being extinguished by an unknown. But it was there.

The lighthouse beacon.

Audemar breathed deeply, his anxiety subsiding. The oarsmen, also spotting the brilliance, cheered.

Thank you, Audemar prayed. Thank you.

Their flyboat lurched forward in spurts. The sea continued to beat the hull without mercy. Yet the Marlish sailors, with the end in sight, powered through the turbulence, their renewed will finding its way.

The beacon flashed once more. This time, it stayed lit, as the wavering flames endured lick after lick from the storm winds.

Audemar marched up to the mast, grabbing ahold of it for support. He pointed to the light. There it is, men. The Lighthouse of Arcporte. Our home! We are so close. Row, as though your lives depended on it. Row, against the storm and every enemy that would wish us sunk and drowned. Row, for Mar and all of Marland!

The men cheered as the waves clapped against each other. Audemar could hardly tell one noise from another. Not that it mattered. For the silhouettes of the capital were now in view. The Lighthouse. The Curved Wharf. And the fortress that oversaw them all – Arcporte Castle.

Though the castle stood as little more than a dark outline against a blackened sky, Audemar knew that for all the months he had spent away, no sight as of late could match its beauty. The vertical lines of its towers and walls bent not to the wind nor the rain. Rather, they remained defiant, strong. For all the castle’s qualities, though, Audemar admired it not for what it was, but for the people it housed and protected.

Audemar turned his sights back to the waters before him. They sped closer, more of the city coming into view. From the wharf, wooden fingers extended into the harbor. The docks of Arcporte had crept into the harbor over hundreds of years, many built in spurts and sudden bouts of construction. At times, the sea reclaimed the harbor, splintering the massive planks and posts of wood. This was one of those moments. For as Audemar saw, the might of the storm had ripped apart planks from their pilings. Several floated out to meet them, much like ice floes, so that the First Mate was forced to stand and keep watch for them as he navigated the tiller, all the while shouting commands to the oarsmen.

Upon one of the steadiest docks, nearly twice as wide as the others, Audemar found a host of royal attendants. They paced on the planks, careful to shield themselves from the waves that sometimes crested the wooden walkway. Closer to the wharf, more servants waited alongside saddled horses, which bristled each time a surge splashed the dock.

I cannot wait any longer, Audemar told himself. He made his way to the bow, stepping over the oarsmen and their benches along the way. Upon reaching the bowsprit, he extended one foot onto it, unsteady though it was.

Your Majesty! cried the First Mate.

You just attend to that tiller! Audemar commanded. Faster, men! Put the sum of your strength into your oars and each of you will have a satchel of gold.

That seemed to do it. The oarsmen heaved all of their weight into rowing, their momentum synchronizing. The flyboat, having found its rhythm in turn, seemed to glide over the roughest patches of the harbor.

The figures of the attendants on the dock became clearer. As did their garb. The details of their faces. Closer still Audemar came. He perched both of his feet on the bowsprit, balancing his weight, careful not to fall overboard.

The servants on the docks responded in kind. They leaned over, extending their hands and the staffs of their halberds. Audemar, growing ever more confident, let go of the bowsprit to reach out to them.

A sudden wave broke upon the stern, rocking the flyboat. Audemar, losing his footing, flailed forward.

His hand, though wet, wrapped around a staff. The other gripped the hand of another as his feet skimmed the water.

Then he found himself on solid ground as attendants swirled around him. One draped him in a long coat of mink and sable, while another offered him a skin of hot wine. Audemar, noticing the absence of rain upon his face, glanced up to find three parasols sprouted above him.

Audemar brushed past them all, ignoring their pleas and inquiries. His wobbly sea legs carried him toward the wharf. As he neared the retinue or servants and horses, he pointed to the largest – and most anxious – mount.

Give me that stallion! he commanded, his voice bellowing over the cracking thunder and crashing sea.

All the attendants parted and bowed. The royal equestrian handed the reins of his stallion to Audemar, who mounted it unassisted. With a clip of his heels and a snap of his reins, Audemar sped off on the steed, leaving the servants to scramble after him.

Rain and wind battered his face as he raced through the cobblestones streets of the capital. Little stood in his way, as the merchants had cleared their carts from the street and only a few commoners walked about, braving the weather. Not that their presence mattered, for all around Audemar blurred. He made no distinction to any person or object, save the solid structure that grew before him: Arcporte Castle.

The walls of the barbican and battlements rose before him. But as he closed in on his home, he found no raised portcullis to greet him. Nor drawbridge. Both remained secured, no doubt in answer to the raging storm.

Lightning streaked over the castle as thunder clapped. Audemar tightened his grip on the reins as his stallion, ever the spirited one, rose on its hindquarters and whinnied.

Up high! Open the gate!

No answer followed.

Audemar patted the beast, turning its sudden burst of energy to pacing the width of the barbican. Through the arrow slips and windows, Audemar spotted the light of burning braziers.

They are inside, he assured himself. But they cannot hear me.

Audemar cleared his throat. He stood up in his stirrups. Open this gate! For your sovereign!

Still, nothing.

Damn it all to hell, he cursed. His horse shook its head in response. Audemar patted it. What do we do now? he asked facetiously.

Though the horse did not answer him, a sheep did. The bleat forced Audemar to turn in his saddle. Behind him, he found a flock being ushered through the street by two sheepdogs and a shepherd.

Evening, the shepherd offered.

What in Mar’s name are you doing? Audemar asked, bewildered. What shepherd leads his flock in a storm?

A poor one, my Liege, answered the shepherd. And desperate. There’s a wolf outside the city walls that has been stalking my flock. A bold one, that is, one that trailed us all through the Porte-to-Land. I thought to make camp outside the city, thinking the storm would drive it off. It didn’t. Took three good sheep before the guard at the gate allowed me in.

Imagine that, Audemar said, feigning interest. He shifted in his saddle, about to lead his horse away, when the sight of something beneath the shepherd’s cloak caught his attention. That around your neck. What is that?

‘Twas my father’s. A hunter’s horn.

Audemar perked. May I?

The shepherd unclasped the horn from the lanyard on his neck. Careful, he pleaded. ‘Tis ancient.

It felt as such too, Audemar thought, as he weighed the hunter’s horn in his hand. The polished ram’s horn was banded by two solid brass rings, with a tin mouthpiece at its tip. Audemar inhaled, raised it to his lips and blew.

A long, deep blast bellowed from the horn, sending the sheep scattering and his horse on its hindquarters once more. Yet it did the trick, as Audemar spotted shadows in the barbican windows.

The shepherd extended his hands to his fleeing sheep. My sheep!

The chains of the drawbridge clanked as it lowered. Audemar whistled to the shepherd, who raised his head. He tossed the horn to the man, along with the mink and sable coat from his shoulders.

For your trouble, Audemar said. Thank you.

As he had down at the docks, Audemar brushed through the royal servants once the portcullis opened. He dismounted, handing the reigns over, before marching through the guardhouse and bailey, past sentries and attendants. All lowered their eyes and bowed, but Audemar paused for none of them. For he knew he had no time for formalities.

Audemar hurried from the bailey up the stairs to the covered parapet on the second floor. Upon reaching the top of staircase, a servant girl nearly ran into him. She averted his stare, muttered an apology and hurried on her way. Audemar paused, not to reprimand her, but because the blood-stained linens she carried garnered his attention.

His mind racing with the worst of possibilities, he marched down the parapet, his wet boots striking the tiles, their sound echoing through the hall. The noise quickened, as did his legs. Audemar found himself breaking into a trot. Then a run. The stone hall reverberated his panic, shouting back with the sounds of clapping hard leather against stone.

He took the stairs of the corner tower two at a time. Servant girls parted as he rushed past. He nearly plowed one back up the stairs when two strong arms finally caught him.

Son.

Audemar stopped. He stared up at his father, who stood on the step above, looking down at him. Angst washed over his face, robbing his typically bright disposition of color. Many more lines had formed in the creases of his face, particularly around his eyes, even though only four months had passed since his father visited him on the front.

Father, Audemar said, before looking past him, to the heavy oaken door only steps away. Let me pass. I have to see her.

She has lost much blood, Artus warned, his voice cracking. His hands held Audemar by the shoulders, unsure of whether to ease their grip to allow him to pass or to tighten so as to comfort.

The mage...

Comforts her as we speak.

And the child?

Artus lowered his shoulders, the same ones that for years had remained high and strong under mail and armor. The child... struggles. It is still within her.

A cry rang from beyond the door out into the hall. Those servant girls waiting outside placed their index and middles finger of their right hands to their foreheads before bowing to pray.

Audemar laid his hands on his father’s shoulders. Artus, knowing he could do nothing more to prepare his son for what laid beyond, released him.

Audemar made his way to the door. Each step seemed heavier than the one before, as though he were plodding through a bog. By the time he reached the door– his strength had drained. As had most of his resolve to enter, for fear of what awaited him on the other side.

Then his wife screamed.

The door parted. The floor contracted, so that Audemar had but to step and find himself past the mage, at his wife’s side. His hand caressed her temple, then her hair, all of which laid drenched in sweat.

My love, she whispered.

Ellenora, Audemar replied, as all other words vanished from his mind.

He extended his hand around her, to cradle her head. Never before had it felt so light, so absent of vigor, of life.

Your Majesty.

Audemar looked over his shoulder to the mage, a man of noble birth who had not yet seen his thirtieth year.

Which one are you? Audemar asked incredulously.

Wystan, from Har-Kin Danverrs.

Very well, Danverrs. Leave us and fetch the Royal Mage. Your services are no longer needed.

But...

Are you blind?! How dare you allow her to lose so much blood!

Wystan retreated from the bed as Artus returned to the chamber.

My son, Artus said. The Royal Mage died in his sleep three nights ago.

He what?

Mage Searle was well along in years. His time had come. We sent couriers to every manor in the kingdom, pleading for their best mages to make haste to the castle to help with the birth. Mage Wystan here was the first to answer the call, and the one most versed in healing.

He stopped the bleeding, Ellenora added. More than a few times. At least, those I recall.

Forgive me, my Lord, Audemar begged humbly, bowing his head. I am in your debt.

There is no apology needed, my King.

Ellenora gripped her swollen stomach and screamed. The sheets before her open legs, recently changed, turned red as they soaked up her blood.

Mage! Audemar yelled.

Maidens! Wystan commanded to those outside. At once, a retinue of maidens entered the quarters with clean sheets and pitchers in their hands. Wystan urged them to his side. Audemar, his arms supporting Ellenora, could only watch as Wystan washed his hands and changed the sheets, all the while barking orders.

I will need... you. Yes. You, girl. Take this cloth and apply pressure there. Then you, fetch that saltwater root oil I showed you earlier. And the birthing serum. Yes, those vials over there!

A girl grabbed the vial rack from the corner table and swung around, only to have it slip from her hands. The momentum sent the vials flying out of the rack, all of which shattered on the floor.

You stupid wench! Wystan screamed. Go! Out of here! He pointed to another maiden. You! Yes, you!

Mage, Audemar urged. There is no more time.

Wystan and Audemar looked upon Ellenora’s face, which contorted in agony. Through her pain, though, she nodded. Now, she whispered. Now.

Wystan rolled up his sleeves higher than necessary as he edged toward Ellenora’s open legs. He glanced at the king for approval before venturing to reach out and touch the queen. Audemar, in return, nodded.

My Queen, Wystan said. You will need to push.

Ellenora stared at the mage and blinked once. She took a deep breath. Audemar, with his hand outstretched, felt his wife’s fingers wrap and tighten within his. With his other hand, he touched her swollen stomach.

She pushed. Then she screamed.

Audemar would scarcely go on to remember what happened after. He knew it involved more anguish on the part of his wife, along with more worry on his. The only part that remained imprinted in his memory was a single sound.

The cry of a newborn.

The maidens handed Mage Wystan linen after linen, allowing him to wipe off the fluid and blood from the babe. Then they offered the mage cloths soaked with warm water, so as to wash the prince clean. After that, a maiden gave the mage a length of velvet cloth, which the mage used to wrap and swaddle the lad.

Your Majesty, Wystan announced, beaming, I present to you your child. A son. The Prince of Marland.

Audemar extended his arms as the mage placed his kin before him. The child neither squirmed nor cried as he looked up and focused. The babe lifted his arm, his miniature fingers picking at the stubble on Audemar’s chin.

Audemar, ablaze in jubilation, pivoted to turn to his wife.

Wystan caught the king by the arm.

My King... he whispered.

Audemar paused. The mage, stricken with concern, gazed from the king to the queen.

What? Audemar asked, his voice tinged with anxiety. What is it?

Chapter 1

How can this be? Such beauty. Among such despair.

Red, black, red.

The fibers jutting out from its core rose and fell, rose and fell. It crawled indifferent to what laid beneath its feet.

Does it know?

Moving from the moist soil, the caterpillar ascended onto a pale finger. Had the soldier been alive, the fibers on the insect would have tickled him. Alas, the soldier was not tickled. His finger did not move, nor would it ever again.

Eyes, as though set in glass, stared up at him. They dared not move, lest they betray the Hand of Death about to visit. The black center remained in place, neither expanding nor contracting. The color around the black, a soft hue of glacial blue, shifted not. The whites of the eyes stayed fixed in their place. The whole of them unmoved, suspended in time, capturing the full effect of the soldier’s last act.

Symon studied the rest of the soldier’s face. His whiskers had drops of dew, remnants of the fog that was slowly escaping the forest. His auburn hair glowed in the soft light of morning, even though it had been rough cut recently. Perhaps as he sat around a campfire or at a hearth, enjoying a good meal, Symon wished. Such a soldier, one who died for my land, deserved such a memory.

Your Highness.

Symon’s concentration broke. He looked up to find his Right Captain approaching.

Our scouts have returned, Sir Everitt said. They bring news of the Lewmarian camp.

Symon gave the auburn-haired corpse a furtive glance. He did not die for nothing.

Take me to them, he commanded.

With a nod and a turn, Sir Everitt led the way. Symon followed in his wake, his strides long and strong. For they had to be. Every step he took was fraught with the remnants of a battle lost. The corpses, of both men and horses, were but half of the refuse that littered the scarred ground. Splintered arrow shafts, burnt brush and broken shields, in pieces large and small, laid all about. As did fecal matter, accompanied by the stench of urine. No doubt from the greener soldiers, Symon concluded as he struggled to ignore the foul smells.

Such was battle. As was the effort to clean the land of the fallen. Or at least those who fell in defense of Marland, that they may be honored by their brethren-in-arms. Sir Everitt had ordered the pole-men and pavisers to dig shallow graves for the Marlish slain, while the light cavalry was charged with transporting the dead from where they fell to their final resting places.

Sir Everitt paused as a horse strapped with a travois crossed his path, transporting a departed soldier with a mop of golden hair. The lad could not have been more than twenty. Sir Everitt bowed his head, made a fist with his right hand, and placed it over his heart. As did Symon.

Do we have a count? Symon asked as they waited.

Fifty-three of our own. From Har-Kins Hamage, Giscard and Mallory, judging from their coat of arms. All deceased. They left no survivors. Bloody bastards.

And the enemy?

Forty-seven dead. Our brave lads took as many as they could with them to the grave.

Symon watched as the travois headed in the direction of a row of graves, where his soldiers continued to dig. Unlike the auburn-haired soldier earlier, this one laid with his eyes closed.

With that, Symon strode ahead of Everitt. His steps, more determined and with additional haste, put him before his scouts within moments.

Both men, strapping young riders around Symon’s age and build, bowed their heads.

Report, Symon ordered, his mood for pleasantries dissipated.

We counted two-hundred strong, answered the one on the right. On the banks of the Chesa, west of the Burnwood.

That close?

A mile, I suppose, if you went straight through, replied the other, nodding. A little more if you wanted to hide your tracks.

Which we did, the one to the right confirmed.

Symon scratched the stubble on the underside of his chin. Very good, he replied. The way you took. Show me.

The camp was just as Symon expected. Pitched tents and lean-tos lined the meadow along the Chesa, as longships rested on the beachhead, their keels wedged into the sand. A few stumps and felled trees spoke of the camp being fresh, for not much in the way of wood had been harvested. The men, Symon noted, appeared alert and well-rested. Nary have seen much in the way of battle. Their last skirmish with my countrymen troubled them little. I will need to change that.

Like all the Lewmarians he had seen in engagements of the past, these men were brutish, reared from youth to row and fight. Their bodies testified to their time at oars. Coils of their strength stretched from their forearms up to the base of their necks. Muscle atop muscle made their shoulders massive, as though a layer of armor laid underneath them. Unkempt beards and lengths of hair hung from all of them, adding to the allure that these warriors were more bear than man.

Symon looked to his men. The two scouts - though this was their second time viewing the camp - appeared on edge. One laid on his belly beside them, having trekked up the hillock that overlooked the bank. The other, a way down yet still in view, stayed by the horses. Their fear was subtle. But it was there. In the way they glanced over their shoulders. By how they shifted their eyes at every motion or sound. They strained to remain quiet and move with a sense of caution that was unnecessary, even in scouting. Even Everitt, to his right, was too pensive in his movements.

What happened next only worsened their anxiety. From the west, a hunting party hiked back into camp, bringing with them four caged hens, a dozen waterfowl, a cow and two young women. The women, bound but ungagged, wept as the Lewmarians holding the leashes of their bindings pulled them forward.

Seeing the looted prizes, several Lewmarians rose from their cook fires and cheered. Many eyed the women. Many more gazed at the cow.

They have not eaten, Symon realized. Not in a while.

A few ambitious Lewmarians worked to put an end to that. Three grabbed their battleaxes and approached the cow. The Lewmarian leading the bovine, a green warrior with a beard shorter than the rest, held out his hand to stop them. The one closest to him, twice his size with a beard three times longer, shoved him aside. In one fell motion, he raised his axe above his head, to swing it down into the cow’s neck. Blood splattered back onto his face as the beast wailed and fell. Bone and flesh protruded from its thick trunk but the cleave had not cut clean through. The next Lewmarian with an axe had his turn, nearly slicing all the way. The third, as determined as the others, finished the job, eliciting more cheers from his brethren and tears from the captive women.

The scout swallowed his breath. Very well, Symon told himself. That is enough of that.

Symon broke their concentration with a few gestures urging all of them back to the horses. Once gathered, he led them away from the hillock until he saw their breathing return to a respectable rhythm.

How many did you count? Symon asked. At your first scouting and this time?

The scout cleared his throat. Nearly a hundred.

Soldier, your manners, Everitt rebuked.

My apologies, my Liege, the soldier offered. He cleared his throat again before addressing Symon. Your Highness, I counted nearly a hundred during the first scouting. This time, I counted over a hundred, perhaps up to fifty more.

More? Symon thought. Returned from hunting and foraging, you think?

No more ships came ashore. Right, soldier?

True, he replied. Same number of boats... my Liege.

Any sign of their warlord? Symon asked.

The soldier stopped, considered. None. Your Highness.

The news disturbed Symon. How many more Lewmarians roamed the banks of the Chesa? Or the Upper East Waterlands? Or northern Marland herself? He pondered the possibilities. Are my men back at the battlefield safe? The four of us scouted the Lewmarian camp. But were we unseen? How do we know that we ourselves have not been scouted?

Such was battle, he reminded himself. The reality we live in; every day we are on the front. Until we are not.

Despite their detours – the backtracking, the sloshing through streams and creeks, over rock and stone, to cover their tracks – the four found themselves back at the scarred landscape of their brethren within the morning. By then, several of the fallen had been buried, with only a handful yet to be laid in the ground.

Symon scanned his surroundings. Any of his men would have thought he was surveying the landscape, in search of a new route by which to travel, or in consideration of dangers gone previously unseen.

Such assumptions would have proven untrue. For Symon’s gaze searched for no new threat or path. It sought and found the depression in the earth where the blue-eyed, auburn-haired had fallen. Where a caterpillar had traversed, leaving soil and corpse behind. Where trees and grass would rise.

Symon thought he located the spot. But he wasn’t sure.

Truthfully, what did it matter?

Symon did find, however, the armor that had been stripped from the soldiers. It rested on the ground beside the graves. Had the soldiers fell nearer to home, where their families could have attended to their bodies, then they would have had the choice of burying the dead in full armor or keeping it as a memento of their lives and service. This far north, though, did not allow for such pleasantries. Here, as in any other distant field of battle, soldiers were buried plainly and their armor saved from the earth; for it was either passed along to their fellow brothers-in-arms, that it may serve to try to save another, or carried back home with other warriors and presented to the grieving families, that they may have something to remember their loved ones. Or notwithstanding sentiment, such families may sell it for a bit of spare coin that they may live better.

Highness...

Symon broke his trance to turn his attention to Everitt, who nodded to the men.

Their posture, the curves of their mouths, their eyes. All of them reflected a range of emotions, the kind that could only come from the prospect of battle. They were eager. For news. For a plan. For any action that could lead to glory. They were vengeful. For some had known the fallen, whether as relatives, neighbors or brethren-in-arms. They were cautious. Of all the dangers that had taken their fellow soldiers, of the enemies that remained unseen, beyond the boundaries of the forest. Most of all, they were forlorn. For the sight and stench of death – whether it be their brothers or adversaries – is enough to lessen the spirits of the most hardened soldier.

Symon considered all of it. The men before him. Their swelling of emotions. The possibility of victory. And failure.

A heavy burden, he reminded himself. What could possibly amount to my largest battle to date. How did Father do it?

Symon turned his attention to the piles of armor that laid scattered by the men who had dug the graves. Yet to be scrubbed clean, the outerwear bore all the scars and stains of battle.

Yes, Symon told himself. Yes, he said, this time aloud, as a whisper.

Pardon... Everitt began.

A plan, Symon replied. I have a plan.

Chapter 2

The uproar rose, exponentially.

From the trees, birds shot into the air, startled by the growing clamor. The sun, as if in approval, appeared to shine brighter. The wind shifted, rustling branch and brush, almost mimicking the excitement that stirred from his men.

Then, the crackle of fire claiming wood. Consuming. Blackening. Bursting.

Suddenly, a boom erupted from the deck. The main mast buckled. The sail whipped in the air, as flames conquered its red-fanged serpent.

The chants from the men rose. Higher. Louder.

The deck cracked once more. The mast tilted. The sail swayed. The tongues of fire swirled.

All before mast and sail tumbled into the Chesa, to extinguish the last longship on the beachhead.

A final shout erupted from his men. Symon swung his horse around, grinning. He allowed his men their moment. Even those in the vanguard, with Sir Everitt, loosened for a time to pause their march and join the cries with brusque calls of their own.

The captives, seeing their last chance of escape engulfed in flames, looked on quietly. A few dropped their shoulders. All shared in their collective disappointment. Save one.

Warlord Konradt.

He laid on his back, chained to a travois Symon’s men had fashioned from birch. Clad in unwashed skins and furs, what part of him that was not clothed was caked in dirt and blood, both his and that of others. His face fared far worse, for in addition to being sullied, scratches and cuts scattered it. Such marks kept the swollen, bulbous mound on his face that was his nose good company. Considering Konradt’s disheveled traits, any man, even a seasoned hunter, could have mistaken him for a fallen animal. That is, of course, if it were not for his eyes. For as wild as they were, there was no mistaking them for anything but the eyes of a man. A proud man. An enraged man.

Despite the anger coursing through his veins, Konradt remained silent. His chest heaved up and down like the bellows of a blacksmith yet the breath he inhaled and emitted made no noise. His lips moved, mouthing unheard words, creating no sound.

Symon’s men resumed their trek with renewed vigor, as the soldiers turned from the burning wreckage, eager to return home victorious to grateful wives and proud children. The two horses pulling Konradt’s travois started their trot once more, giving the wooden frame a hefty jolt.

Konradt, for his part, continued to prattle on quietly. Symon, with eyes on his prized captive, sauntered up to him.

You! Lewmarian! Speak up if you have something to say.

Konradt’s lips went on.

Pardon me, my Warlord. I dare say that I cannot hear you.

Those within earshot of Symon chuckled. Symon himself grinned as Everitt came up beside him.

Your Highness, Everitt said as he handed over a kerchief. Symon stared at it and then Everitt, unsure of his intent until he motioned to his left cheek.

Symon tapped his left cheekbone with his fingertips. He pulled them away, covered in blood. He accepted Everitt’s cloth with a nod before dabbing his face.

Perhaps let him be, Everitt offered once Symon had cleaned himself.

Symon replied to Everitt’s comment with an inquisitive look. Sympathizing with the enemy, are we Sir Everitt?

"No, never, my Prince. I only meant to—

What could this stinking bear be muttering so feverishly? And why make no sound?

I suspect he’s praying, Your Highness.

Hmmm. The thought intrigued Symon. He nudged the travois with his boot. Is that right, Warlord? Do you pray? Let me recall the dapper gods of the Lewmarians. There is Bladorn, your master of war. Quite a bit of good he did you. Then Krafer, god of ships. Much like the ones we burned. Symon paused his mocking as his men responded with hoots and hollers, save Everitt, who chose to remain respectfully quiet. Yet Symon continued, saving this moment, the one his victory allowed. Then there is Skitra, that devious siren of the depths, the one you pray to for safe passage over troubled waters. As though she or any one of your gods could match the power of Mar!

With that last declaration, a shot went up from his men. Among them, one started the chorus, Men of Mar! Land of Mar! Marland! Marland! On and on they went, their chants building among them and rising like the sudden onset of the tide.

Then their words turned, taking on a stronger, deeper tone as they called out Symon’s family name. Saliswater! Saliswater! Saliswater!

Symon’s grin widened into a smile. He surveyed his soldiers, proud of all who had survived, grateful for their service and more thankful for their loyalty. He then glanced at his captive, hoping to see some reaction to the jests and cheers.

Konradt surely reacted. Just not in the way Symon expected. There was no glare, no mark of anger. Nor were there tears, or hint of defeat or sadness.

Instead, the warlord rolled his eyes, revealing orbs of white as he went on, lips moving.

Prayers. Gods. Curses. What did it matter? Symon thought. He nudged the travois again.

Keep praying to your gods, Symon told him. Perhaps one will answer.

Kept on he did, as the army line went on through the countryside. For three days, Symon’s forces traveled the southbound road through hamlet and village, past township and burg. Throngs of onlookers met them at every turn, with more than a few recognizing the royal standard of Kin Saliswater and its unmistakable four-pointed compass. All waved and cheered, notably when the soldiers urged them on and shouted back. Some gifted the soldiers with warm loaves of bread or links of sausages, which the men eagerly accepted. One even gave away a jug of ale, a present they nearly dropped and squandered it was so popular.

The true celebration, though, took place when they turned left at the fork in the road on the Porte-to-Land Highway. Steering off the country’s main thoroughfare brought them to the harbor towns of Lamlok, Diselle and Burg-On-Bay. Each community they passed proved larger than the last, with inhabitants more raucous and enthusiastic at the soldiers’ presence. Many even waved their own handmade versions of the Saliswater flag. Finally, Symon thought upon spotting the first homage to his kin. True Marlish men and women. My citizens. I’m nearing home.

And with that realization, like a gem rising from the depths of a mountain, the topmost part of his home appeared. First among the components Symon admired was the mighty square keep, its granite blocks and slate tiles blending in with the greystone-colored sky. Then the tips of the corner towers accompanied its prominence, followed by the crenellations of the barbican, the flanking towers, the wall-mounted turrets and the rest of the battlements. As they traversed further and the towns gave way to the city, the sheer size of Arcporte Castle made itself known, as the homes, shops and stables below provided contrast, like ants of wood and straw before a stone giant.

With the spikes of the raised portcullis coming into view, Symon noted that the mob of commoners had grown almost impassable. Hundreds flocked into the street and surrounding alleyways, all clamoring for a glimpse of their prince and savior. The Marlish soldiers reacted in kind, collecting around Symon and the prisoners to form a barrier between city residents and the fighters. Despite their best efforts, however, the quarters remained tight.

Sir Everitt, his horse brushing alongside Symon’s, leaned over for a word. My Liege... he began.

I know, Symon replied. He drew his sword. Not in a show of aggression, but one meant to command respect.

And command respect it did. The polished blade managed to glint, even though the overcast weather hindered the sunlight. The spectators, their mouths suddenly agape, gazed upon the royal weapon in admiration and wonder.

Symon clipped his heels into the sides of his horse, urging him forward. The stallion trotted forward, unafraid of the mass. In response, the audience parted.

The prince had only ridden a few steps into the throng when the hornblowers emerged between the castle crenellations and blared.

Make way, you fools! Make way!

Good Mar, Symon groaned. Here he comes. Late as always.

A red-capped man, smaller than most, pushed his way through the audience. When those before him refused to budge, he nestled right up against them, burrowing through until a path opened.

Symon sheathed his sword and looked over his shoulder to Everitt. The knight, a man known for being steadfast in his manners, bowed his head in a faint attempt to hide his grin.

Your Highness! exclaimed the red-capped little fellow as he broke free from the mob.

Master Reysen, to what do I owe the honor? Symon asked.

A thousand apologies, my esteemed Prince. Your return comes at an unprecedented hour.

Noon? I thought there was a noon to every day of the week. Is there not, Sir Everitt?

Indeed, there is, Sir Everitt responded, his answer wafting through not-so-hushed laughter of soldier and citizen alike.

Of course, Reysen said as he stepped back and bowed at the waist. Forgive me for misspeaking, Your Highness.

You need never be sorry for good and honest conversation, Symon assured the town crier. Speaking of which, put that clear voice of yours to its best use, would you?

At once, Your Highness. Reysen smoothed the lines of his smock as he held his head high. Make way, for his royal highness, he said as he addressed the onlookers, his confidence restored, the strength of his voice growing. The heir to Kin Saliswater, Prince Jameson.

Both manners and admiration returned to the crowd. They erupted into cheers while simultaneously stepping back to allow the prince and his entourage to pass. Symon, grateful for his progression home to continue, rode ahead, waving at intervals. His glances and gestures stirred his subjects. They craned their necks, waving frantically and shouting words of allegiance in return.

Hail, Prince Jameson! Hail, Kin Saliswater! Blessed be his name! Blessed be his name!

The chants grew as Symon continued on to the castle, with the foot bridge and barbican now mere steps away. The proximity to the castle seemed to have emboldened the town crier too, for with each step his voice boomed louder, his arms sweeping in arcs to his sides, as though the power of his gestures were guiding the crowd further back.

Make way! Make way!

The sentries on the footbridge - eight abreast, nearly the