Travis Starnes
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An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 9
🕑 Added 2024-10-03 13:00:04 +0000 UTCLindvale, The Barony of Lindenwood, Sidor
“…supplies for the work to be done,” Thurston said, sitting in his simple but comfortable chair, enjoying the always sour look on his steward’s face. “We’ve been cut off from Iron Keep all winter and I know there has been a lot of worry about when the roads will reopen. I’ve already spoken to the Barons on the other end of the pass through the Shatterstone Mountains and they’ve agreed to lend their men and coin to clearing from their end as well, which means we should have the rockslides clear by Reliquary Day, if we work hard.”
“I’m surprised they agreed at all. They’ve always been more concerned about their mines than commerce, as if they are the ancients themselves and their ore just vanishes, to reappear in a new city with no work at all.”
Thurston smiled. Lundun was a true man of the Lindenwood, carrying all the prejudices of the Shatterstone Barons, and really any of the nobles from Iron Keep. Normally, Thurston didn’t mind, as a little rivalry helped keep people focused, as long as it didn’t go too far.
This time, however, he needed his people to work with the men from the other side of the mountain range to get the work done. The greenway was the major road through the forest of Eastern Kingsheart and up into Iron Keep, traveling all the way north to the two keeps that guarded the entrance to Althear Bay known as The Sisters.
A huge amount of trade made its way down the Greenway and into the rest of the kingdom, and it had been closed for months. It wasn’t uncommon for the road to become impassable in the height of winter, but it was usually clear well before the middle of Maw’s end, and the rockslide that had blocked it had shut trade down for an additional two weeks, which was hitting the coin purses of everyone involved.
“Believe me when I tell you they do care when it means their ore is stacking up without forges for it to be delivered to. Much of it has already been spoken for, and no one wants to see those merchants decide it’s better to risk the mines of the Gloompeaks getting the business instead. So no, they will work with us this time.”
“As you say, my lord,” Lundun said, getting another smile from Thurston. “Speaking of the greenway...”
His words were cut off as raised voices came through the window of the keep, partially opened to allow a slight breeze in the room, enough to counter the fire but not so much as to chill the bones.
Thurston stood and made his way to the window, pushing the shutters open. His was a small keep, more a tower than a proper fortification, which hadn’t been needed this deep in Sidor in centuries, which meant he was only a few stories above the ground, and able to easily see the cause of the commotion.
Part of him wished he hadn’t.
A dozen men in the livery of the crown were at the gate to his keep, arguing with his own guards, who had their hands on their sword hilts. It was a worrying sight, as was the wagon barring a barred cage a few paces behind them.
It wasn’t difficult for Thurston to realize what was happening. He’d heard the rumors, same as everyone else, and knew he’d been a target of the King ever since he stood and openly defied him at court. Sinclair and the duke had warned him that he was stepping too far, making himself a target, but Thurston hadn’t listened. He’d always believed that if something was right, you stepped forward and said it plainly, and hated playing in the shadows. He was willing to stand for what he believed in, no matter the cost.
And it was clear the time to pay that cost had arrived.
What he wasn’t willing to do was let his men throw their lives away for him needlessly. Yes, they could probably defeat the dozen men the king sent, but that would put him in open rebellion and force the hands of others he had agreed to follow willingly.
“Stand aside,” he called down. “I want no bloodshed.”
“My lord,” one of his men yelled back, not taking his eyes off the king’s men. “These men say…”
“I know why they’re here. Let them by!”
His men looked up now, almost pleading with him to let them defend themselves. They were good men, who’d served him loyally for years, through hard winters and lean summers. Which is why he was willing to do what he had to now, for the good of them and the rest of his people.
The guards saw the look on his face, saw that he meant business, and reluctantly stepped aside. As the king’s men rushed into the keep, Thurston turned from the window and back to Lundun.
“Get word to Sinclair. Let him know what has happened here, and that I hold him to his word.”
Lundun gave him a grim look. He was Thurston’s closest advisor and friend. Thurston had known Lundun before Gavric raised him from one of the minor families to become one of his direct vassals, a replacement for a family that had been cast out after their treason to the crown, and Thurston had brought Lundun with him, appointing him steward of his house, to ensure he was always at hand when needed.
Lundun had advised against the agreement with Sinclair, saying that it would end with Thurston’s neck in a noose. It seemed like his old friend would be able to say ‘I told you so’ one last time. It was because of Lundun that Thurston had extracted from Sinclair a promise that, should things turn bad, he would watch over his people and ensure someone appropriate, someone like Lundun, take his place, and not one of Edmund’s sycophants.
“As you wish, my lord,” Lundun said, not breaking eye contact with Thurston until they heard the boots of angry men stomping down the corridor toward their room.
“Open it so the fools don’t break it down,” Thurston said, gesturing toward the door.
Lundun made an expression but did as he was bidden. He’d only just gotten the door open and started to pull it in when he’d been forced to jump back as the soldiers burst into the room, all but kicking the door in.
Each had hand to hilt, as if they expected Thurston to be making a last stand, sword in hand, even though he had just ordered his own guard to stand aside.
Seeing none, and seemingly disappointed in the bloodless nature of this event, one of the men stepped forward, producing a very official missive from his belt.
“Baron Thurston,” the man said as he unrolled it and held it up. “By order of his majesty, King Serwyn Whitton, you are hereby charged with high treason against the crown. You will submit yourself to the king’s justice immediately.”
“You serve a fool and a puppet,” Thurston spat. “But I go willingly.”
With a gesture to Thurston, two of his men hustled forward and grabbed the baron roughly, putting manacles on his hands, as if he were a common brigand.
Thurston allowed himself one last look at Lundun, who looked equally devastated and furious, as the men hauled him out of his rooms and down the keep. Servants and guards lined the halls, watching him, their expressions similar to Lundun’s.
The men pushed him roughly down the stairs and out the front door of the keep, causing Thurston to stumble and fall to his knees in the street. A crowd had gathered, brought by the shouts of the guards and sight of others running to the commotion.
The looks on their faces were of anger and disbelief, but that became outright fury at seeing their baron thrown into the street. People began shouting at the king’s men who picked him off the ground and pushed him forward again to the cart.
Thurston appreciated their loyalty to him, but two of his soon-to-be jailers had pulled their swords in response, and the baron could see this turning deadly.
“Return to your homes,” the baron called out, raising his voice over the shouts. “These men are doing their duty. Please, go home peaceably. I do not want any of you hurt to save me.”
Some backed off, but most did not, and pressed forward further, forcing more of the king’s men to pull their swords.
“See our people home,” Thurston yelled to the guardsmen shadowing his captors.
The guards looked like they would rather join the people in rioting and attacking the king’s men, but they were loyal as well, and did as they were ordered, pushing and cajoling the citizens back, and out of the street.
Tensions dropped, at least enough to keep it from becoming deadly. The men kept their swords in hand but didn’t take it further than that, instead returning to push him toward the barred wagon.
“Enough of this,” one of the men said. “Into the wagon with you.”
Thurston banged his knee as he was shoved into the wagon and the man slammed the iron door of the cage shut. Through the bars, he could see the faces of his people. Concerned, angry, and afraid.
The wagon lurched forward, and the crowd parted reluctantly to let it pass. Some reached out, trying to touch Thurston’s hand through the bars. Others shouted words of support or hurled insults at the king’s men.
All Thurston could hope was that Sinclair held true to his word.
***
Tala Plains, North of Valemonde
The rain had been falling for hours, thick sheets drenching the men as they trudged through the mud. Cloaked and soaked, he rode at the head of his column, his horse’s hooves sinking deep into the saturated earth.
“This is what I hoped to avoid,” Pembroke said from beside him. “This will be a nightmare to fight in.”
“It will be a nightmare for them, too,” William said. “You’ve seen what they’ve thrown against us. They are short on men and supplies. We know the Werna have been supplying a lot of their arms, but their ship will have to sail all the way south and up the Elandrine River into Dawnstar Lake to deliver them, and the seas have only just become passable. In another few weeks, they will have more arms and more time to train their conscripts. Hitting them now will let us push all the way to the city, and even if it doesn’t, they will be forced to throw everything they have to stop us, keeping them weak.”
“It could also weaken us. We also have limited supplies.”
“Haverhill will be in Werne by the end of the week and, thanks to the funding so helpfully provided by the Lynesian nobles, we will have our own resupply. But ours just has to travel the Merchant Sea.”
That had been an idea that William had been proud of. Taking the heart of the Lynesian Nobility in Soriveau had given them not just a new base to operate out of as they pushed south, it also provided a deluge of Lynesian coin. Since his father had deemed the resupply of his army as ‘currently impractical,’ as his last letter had said, William had decided it was time for them to do something about it themselves.
William had pulled together all of the confiscated Lynesian coin and sent it with Haverhill, along with several of their larger ships, north to Werna to buy food, weapons, and armor. If this came to a siege of Valemonde, which William was almost certain it would, then he would need those supplies to see the siege through.
“Your father is going to be very upset by that. Traditionally, the liberated coin is sent home to be melted down and recoined.”
“Traditionally, our king provides supplies for men in the field, along with reinforcements. If my father wants to change the rules, then he has to deal with the consequences of that. Unless he wants to sue for peace and bring us home.”
“You know he can’t do that, not with... how things are.”
“So he’ll have to settle for my decision. I’ll deal with my father when this is all over,” William said.
Pembroke gave him a look, clearly not agreeing. They had had this argument repeatedly since William ordered the march south. He knew Pembroke disagreed with him, but William didn’t need the baron to agree, only to follow orders.
Whatever Pembroke was going to say was cut off by a shout. William looked past the baron to see one of their scouts riding hard toward them.
“Your Highness!” the rider said as he pulled his horse up short next to them, the animal’s hooves squelching in the mud. “We have found the enemy. They hold about ten minutes’ march further south.”
“How many?”
“It is hard to say with this visibility, but maybe three thousand, mostly infantry.”
“Less than we expected,” Pembroke said.
William had five thousand men with him. His army was becoming spread out, guarding a line that stretched all the way back to Rendalia and up to Talabot, which is another reason he wanted to take Valemonde as quickly as possible. If the emperor ran south, they didn’t have the men to hold the entire continent.
“Order the men into battle lines.”
“They’re tired,” Pembroke said.
“I know. But we are close to the city. This has to be his last sally. Once we get through this, we’ll be at their walls.”
Pembroke nodded. He might not like William’s plan, but he couldn’t fault the analysis of the situation.
Soon turned out to be half an hour. His men were ready, in spite of the hours of hard, wet march. Everyone could feel how close they were to the enemy capital, and that it could mean the end of the war and a return home.
What he hadn’t expected was what they would face when they finally did reach the enemy. The line facing them was a hodgepodge of forces, with fully armored knights and men-at-arms standing side by side with what looked like peasants, some not even wearing padded jerkins and wielding what looked like farming implements.
“By the ancestors,” Pembroke muttered.
“I told you. Desperate. They’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. Form the men into lines. We’ll advance straight on. Once the center is engaged, take your knights and strike the right flank. It looks weakest.”
Pembroke looked to the enemy line, evaluating the soundness of the orders. William didn’t take it personally. He knew Pembroke wasn’t second-guessing him, just evaluating like any good commander would.
Wheeling his horse around, the baron called to his assembled men, “To me!”
He rode off, dozens of mounted knights following after him.
“Forward,” William shouted, pushing his voice to be heard above the rain.
The command passed down the line as the Sidorian infantry lurched into motion, marching through the muddy field. The Lynesians smartly held their place, letting the enemy come to them.
Arrows suddenly began to rain down on his men, hidden by the rain, making the first volley deadly. His men began to fall, arrows piercing men and metal, but they didn’t stop, marching through the deadly hail, getting their shields up to protect against the next volley.
“Archers!” William ordered.
His own men were in range and could send the Lynesians a message on their own. They would only get a few volleys before the soldiers got in contact and it became a physical contest.
The field between the armies rapidly closed. The enemy looked fidgety, unbalanced. William felt a bit of pity for them, knowing most of the men standing there, waiting for death, were conscripts.
But only a bit. This was war, and a good part of his own army were conscripts as well.
After the first volley, the archers were much less effective. William put it out of his mind. They were getting close to the line and the real battle was about to begin.
“Charge!” William shouted.
The banners surged forward, leading the men on, their shouts now sounding above the rain and screams. There was the moment before impact that William had started to recognize as the other side tensed, knowing that was coming and trying their best to prepare for it.
And then the clash came as armored men hit armored, and unarmored, men. Almost instantly, soldiers began to fall. A farmer, holding what looked like an old scythe, swung wildly at the nearest Sidorian soldier. The blade caught on a shield, skidding off harmlessly. It was brave, but useless as the Sidorian infantryman responded, slashing across the farmer’s chest, sending him sprawling back into the mud, lifeless.
Again and again, scenes like that unfolded. Men stabbed and slashed and pierced, sometimes protected by armor and sometimes not. The Lynesians fought bravely, in spite of being wildly unprepared for battle. An armored Sidorian, who’d survived battles with men-at-arms and knights, fell to a pitchfork that had found its way over his shield and into his throat, the terrified-looking man holding it as surprised as the dying Sidorian.
William held back with the few knights that had not gone with Pembroke and a small group lead by Eskild. He’d committed the bulk of his foot soldiers to the center, which already looked weak, hoping that pressure on the center and flank would cause their entire line to collapse, ending the battle quickly.
Pembroke’s knights were swinging wide and would strike in a moment, and then the battle would be over.
“My Lord,” one of his knights called out, pointing to their right.
William followed the direction he was pointing. From a far treeline came hundreds of screaming men. From the looks of them, they were more conscripts, lightly and unarmored men. But they had a good position and would come in behind his own men if not countered.
“Eskild, Go!” William ordered.
The sergeant’s lizard reared as he shouted a command, and the dozen knights with him turned and rode off to the right. The mounted servers were becoming few, with only a handful left with William, more of a personal guard than a combat force.
“Pull out the men from the center. Have all of Commander Baldwin’s men withdraw and move to the right flank. Whoever he can get, as many as he can get. He’s to move. Now!” William ordered, turning to another messenger. “Order the right flank back and prepare for being hit from behind.”
It was possible. Baldwin’s troops were behind the front shock troops and hadn’t fully engaged yet. William just hoped enough came out in time to support the right flank and keep it from rolling up. The right flank was the lightest of his flanks, just enough to hold until the left was finished and didn’t have the men to counter that size of an attack.
William could see this was their plan, why they’d held there and waited. Clearly, they’d hoped he would come in closer to the treeline. If he had, there would have been no way William could have gotten men in position to block them in time. Fate, or maybe the Ancients, had looked down on him and granted him a bit of luck. That and William hadn’t wanted to fight next to heavy woods if he didn’t have to because the enemy could escape into it and maybe get away.
Paranoia, to be sure. But it had worked out for him.
Baldwin’s men began peeling off, at first in groups of five or ten, but then by the dozens, all following the wake of Eskild and the knights with him, which thundered across the muddy field.
Panic had started to set in on his right flank as they spotted the enemy coming in behind him. For a moment, things tilted at the brink, and Eskild’s group hit the line of men.
Went through the line, more appropriately. There were not enough of them to actually stop the onslaught of Lynesians, as they tore a hole in their center, riding through, slashing and killing as they did, before curving for a second charge.
The worst thing for a knight to do was get weighed down by foot soldiers, losing their momentum. They would be deadly, but eventually would get pulled from their horses and slain.
Mounted men needed to stay mobile, and Eskild knew that. It was enough, however, to slow their line down, the farmers and laborers not used to seeing hundreds of pounds of horse and lizard bearing down on them, tearing through their friends.
By the time they began their charge in earnest again, Baldwin’s men were there, locking the enemy into a fierce battle, with Eskild and his knights charging through the sides, tearing chunks out of their line.
The right would hold.
On the left, Pembroke and his men slammed into the enemy’s left flank like a battering ram. For a heartbeat, it seemed the entire Lynesian line would crumple under the impact. But the enemy commander had much the same idea as William had, pulling a portion of the better-trained men-at-arms, identifiable by their matching surcoats, from his center, shoring up his own right flank.
He must have thought it reasonable, since William had done the same, making the center much weaker on both sides, neither able to break through the other.
Pembroke did what Eskild had not managed to do. He got bogged down in a brutal melee. He could see the baron trying to fight through, but the trained men-at-arms had come in around his side and front, pinning him against the line.
The baron’s knights hacked and slashed at the press of infantry, but their momentum was spent. What should have been a decisive blow had turned into a grinding slog.
William knew something more was needed. He would lose the Baron and his knights if he didn’t do something decisive.
“With me!” William shouted to his personal guard, spurring his horse forward, directly toward the center of the enemy line.
It actually took the knights assigned to him a moment to realize what he was doing. It was dangerous, but William needed to relieve the pressure on the left and the right, and there was one way to do it. The enemy commander had made a mistake, weakening his center. Yes, William had done the same, but he still had a dozen mounted knights, and the enemy was fully committed. Normally, a dozen men, even on horseback, would not make a difference, but their line, which was already unsteady, made up of conscription and second-tier men.
William thundered toward the enemy line, sword in hand, directing toward a space where he could get through his own line. The impact was brutal. William’s horse plowed into the first rank of defenders, sending bodies flying. His sword flashed down, cutting through leather and flesh alike.
The other knights came in behind him, pushing further into the enemy. This was exactly where he did not want to be, surrounded by enemy soldiers all around. He had to keep the tempo going, to keep them from overwhelming him.
“For Sidor!” William roared, pressing forward.
His blade found another target, a man wearing the remnants of what might have once been a blacksmith’s apron. The sword bit deep, and the man fell away with a gurgling cry.
His footmen were buoyed by the sudden appearance of mounted knights, pushing harder. Between the two, the Lynesian center began to crumble under the onslaught. He urged his horse onward, cutting a swath through the enemy ranks.
Ahead, William spotted a figure who stood out from the rest. A man in finer armor, shouting orders and trying to rally the flailing troops.
“Stand fast, you cowards!” The man was screaming, smacking Lynesians with the flat of his sword as much as he struck out at attacking Sidorians.
William drove his horse toward the man, cutting down those who stood in his way. The man, who had to be their commander, saw him coming and raised his sword, meeting William’s in time, stopping the slash that would have sent him to join his ancestors.
The Lynesian commander was skilled, parrying William’s first few strikes deftly, but William was better. He feinted left, drawing a false parry from the man, which found no sword to block as William reversed his strike, slashing up hard, ripping into the man’s armpit.
The Lynesian commander cried out in pain, his sword falling from nerveless fingers, unable to block the follow-up strike that sent him tumbling from his horse.
With their leader fallen, the remaining Lynesian forces broke. Men threw down their weapons and fled in blind panic or to their knees in surrender.
“Press them!” William shouted to his men, pointing part to the left and part to the right. “Roll them up!”
His men didn’t need much encouragement. Seeing the enemy break had gotten his men’s blood up, and they were looking for more victims.
Being attacked from two sides, and seeing their comrades running for their lives, spread the panic. A trickle became a flood as their entire line entered a race to Valemonde. Pembroke’s knights broke free on the left and Eskild’s force broke free on the right, both angling in, chasing the enemy and ravaging them as they retreated, cutting down as many as they could, reducing what they would have to face when they got to the city.
William sent one of his knights to Baldwin, to assign the cleanup of the enemy still on the field to the commander, while he joined the chase to Valemonde.
It was a massacre, as they rode down men by the dozen, cutting them down. Bodies littered the plain all the way back to the city. Finally, they crested a low rise and the sprawling expanse of Valemonde came into view. William reined in his horse, signaling the other men to pull up as he surveyed the city’s defenses.
Besides its impressive outer wall, they had built up a series of overlapping defenses out from it. They might be light in manpower, but they had made up for it in fortifications. It was an impressive display, and one that would be difficult to conquer without an expensive cost in blood.
“That is going to be a difficult nut to crack,” Pembroke said, riding up to him as he pulled his men up short.
“It is. Let’s begin the siege and bring in the ships. Use the prisoners we took today to assist with the digging. I want the engine lake locked down, and not a scrap of food to get inside the city.”
“So it begins,” Pembroke said, as they watched the enemy lucky enough to avoid their wrath.
