Here’s what we think of your whore-spawned king!” The rebel’s face was partially covered by a kerchief, but the dung that flew through the air to land with a wet thud against Cam’s shield made the protester’s meaning abundantly clear.
“Disperse to your homes! Disperse now!” Cam’s voice was raw with shouting, and the crowd facing them seemed in no mood to hear. That he and the Veigonn were helping to put down rioters should have given anyone an idea of just how bad things had become.
The palace city of Aberponte was aflame.
What had begun as a tavern brawl between a soldier and a townsman with Divisionist sympathies had spilled out into the street. Whether the first fire had truly been from a lantern knocked over in the brawl or whether it had been set intentionally no longer mattered. From where Cam sat astride his battle steed, the smoke was thick and the fall night was unseasonably hot. The entire horizon glowed orange with flames. At least a third of the city was on fire, and though he could hear the cries of the bucket brigades behind him, it was anyone’s guess as to whether they could stop the flames from leaping from roof to roof.
A hail of rocks answered the shouted warning. They slammed against Cam’s shield and helm, clattering off his horse’s armor. Cam tugged on his reins to keep his warhorse still. As one, the line of mounted soldiers advanced, forcing the crowd back a pace.
“Disperse, by order of the king! Go home now, and no one gets hurt.”
“Pox take you and your king! Go to the Crone!”
The rioters surged forward, fueled by rage and ale. Cam knew that their orders to put down the riots with as little violence as possible could only control the situation for so long. At some point, one side would push the other too far, and blood would flow. The soldiers were armored and mounted on massive horses with iron-shod hooves. The crowd had its fury and its sheer size, emboldened by alcohol and provoked by fear.
A row of men with homemade pikes rushed forward to hold the mounted soldiers at bay while the crowd pelted them with larger objects, fist-sized pieces of stone, broken bottles, and sharp shards of pottery. Though Cam’s armor deflected the worst of the blows, one of the pottery pieces opened a gash on his cheek and a large stone hit his left forearm hard enough to momentarily numb his hand.
“Swords out!” Cam and the other soldiers drew their swords. Half a dozen men armed with sickles and barn rakes ran at them with a cry as the crowd roared. Before their makeshift weapons could do damage, the soldiers’ swords whistled down, sending heads and limbs rolling.
Cam winced. It was one thing to fight invaders; it was another thing entirely to slaughter townsfolk. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Run away, Cam willed to the angry mob. Do the smart thing and run away.
Plague, famine, and fear fueled rage. The mob surged forward, hurling anything that wasn’t nailed down and grabbing whatever they could carry as weapons. Two burly men wrenched a watering trough free from its moorings and ran at full speed toward the line of soldiers.
“Defend yourselves!” Wilym shouted. Cam’s stallion reared up on his great hind legs and kicked at the attackers. The horse’s massive hooves connected with a sick thud, taking the top off one man’s skull and sending the other man flying back.
Enraged, the crowd kept coming. All around him, Cam could hear the snick of swords meeting flesh and the sound of bodies hitting the ground. Curses flew from both sides, and the rioters had begun to climb for higher ground, scaling the balconies and drainpipes for better advantage. The hail of muck and solid objects now rained down from above. Out of the corner of his eye, Cam saw a small boulder slam down on one of the soldiers. The crowd cheered wildly as the soldier toppled from his horse, and three men ran forward to slit the downed man’s throat, scrambling out of the way before the soldier’s comrades could ride to his defense. The cobblestones were red with blood and strewn with shattered glass, and the air smelled of burning thatch and open sewers.
We’re damned, no matter what we do. Fall back, and the mob storms the palace gates. Cut them all down, and they become martyrs, while the soldiers become the enemy. Even if we win, we lose.
If the soldiers had held back before, the sight of one of their own lying dead on the road put an end to restraint. Cam heard battle cries tear from the throats of the men around him as they urged their war steeds forward, laying into the crowd with their swords with as much fury as if they were on a field of battle. Half of the mob held their ground, hurling broken bottles and rocks. Behind them, the others put up hastily made barricades of overturned wagons and upended barrels and crates. From behind the cover of the barricade, slings and slingshots replaced hand-thrown rocks, firing their missiles with better aim and deadly force.
If we’ve got to take back the city from our own people street by street, Goddess help us!
The alleyway was littered with severed arms and mangled bodies, but the sight seemed to drive the mob beyond fear. Across the barricades, down the alleys that fed into the street, Cam could hear running footsteps and see more fighters coming to join the rebels behind the barricades.
“Forward!” Wilym gave the order, and as one, the soldiers headed straight for the barricades at full gallop, their heavy hooves making a deafening roar as the sound echoed from the buildings. Even the most stalwart of the rabble fled their ramshackle fortification as the wall of battle steeds charged toward them. The iron hooves smashed through the wagons and barrels, sending a rain of wooden bits into the air. Cam grimaced as one of the rioters stumbled underneath the hooves, screaming.
Farther down the alley, Cam could see the mob rallying again. This time, they used the stone wall at the edge of the common grazing area as their redoubt, and the hail of insults and rocks resumed.
“This is going to take the whole bloody night,” Cam heard Wilym curse.
Instead of scattering, more people were streaming toward the fight. Some of them might have intended to be onlookers, and others might have been fleeing the fires. But like it or not, they had become combatants.
“Bows drawn!”
Reluctantly, Cam sheathed his sword and drew the crossbow that was slung across his back. An ugly night was about to become even uglier.
The first salvo of quarrels sailed through the air, and a row of men at the front of the opposition crumpled and fell. Rocks and bits of wood studded with nails sailed through the air returning the fire. A chunk of wood the size of a man’s fist barely missed Cam’s shoulder. Another round of arrows flew, and more rioters fell.
Suddenly, three small barrels sailed through the air, slamming into the cobblestones just ahead of the soldiers and their horses. Cam had a heartbeat to recognize the smell of the liquid that burst from the kegs to realize what the rioters intended.
“Fall back!”
Torches landed in the pools of brandy, and a wall of flame flared, forcing the horsemen to back up. Too late, Cam could hear the pounding of footsteps behind them and he realized that more rioters had closed in on them from the rear.
“Ride for it!”
Cam wheeled his horse and rode hard as the alleyway behind them began to close, choked off by rioters who were screaming obscenities. Bodies scattered as the heavy war steeds forced their way through. Blows fell on the soldiers and horses as they passed, and Cam knew blood was running down his good leg where a dagger had been jammed into his thigh.
Suddenly, the night was as bright as day. A blinding white light illuminated the alleyway, forcing soldiers and rioters alike to turn their heads and shield their eyes. To Cam’s utter astonishment, the rioters began to topple over, their expressions showing total confusion as their bodies, still frozen in place, wavered and fell over.
“By the Crone! What-”
Cam and the others turned to see two gray-robed battle mages behind them. Wilym grinned broadly and motioned for his soldiers to lower their weapons. “You’re a welcome sight, my friends.”
One of the battle mages, a tall man with graying temples, stepped forward. “Sorry it took us a bit to get to you. The king sent us out to do what we could to stop the fires, and when riots broke out, it got to be difficult to move from place to place.”
Cam could see the concern on Wilym’s face. “It’s like this all over the city? By the Whore! What about the fires?”
Even as Wilym spoke, the second battle mage, a woman with a long, dark braid, raised her hands and put out the sputtering fire that still guttered in the pools of spilled brandy. The alley reeked of blood and scorched alcohol.
“We’ve put the worst out,” the man replied. “Some of the rest will have to burn themselves out, but we’ve managed to contain them.”
“And the rioters?” Wilym asked with a jerk of his head toward the jumble of bodies that lay still behind their barricade.
The battle mage’s face was streaked with soot, but he managed a tired smile. “They’re not dead, though they’ll wake up with headaches that might make them wish they were. I dare say that a bout of diarrhea will keep them from taking to the streets again for a few days, at least.”
Wilym looked at the mage skeptically. “Glad you’re on our side.”
The mage turned his attention to Cam and seemed to note the crest on his breastplate and shield that marked him as King’s Champion. “Cam of Cairnrach?”
“Aye.”
“We were told to tell you and the leader of the Veigonn that the king wants you in the palace as soon as you can be spared from the fight.”
Cam and Wilym exchanged glances. “Any idea why?” Wilym asked.
The battle mage shook his head. “I didn’t think it wise to ask. We were all told to keep an eye out for you, and to tell you to come straightaway, without taking time to clean up.”
Cam spread his arms and looked down at himself in dismay. “I’m covered with filth!”
The mage shrugged. “Those were the orders. I’m guessing that the king could guess what you look like and doesn’t care.”
They paused only long enough for Cam to pull the dagger from his leg and bind up the wound. Wilym shouted terse orders to his second in command, and with a nod of thanks to the mages, he and Cam headed uphill toward Aberponte. As they made their way to the palace, the night’s toll became more apparent. Injured townsfolk stood aside to let them pass, following them with baleful gazes. Whole blocks of buildings were charred wrecks, with smoke still rising from fallen timbers. Many of the stores and pubs had broken windows, and more than one woman leaned out of an upper window to shout curses at them as they galloped by.
“Why do I have the feeling that the night isn’t going to get any better once we reach to the palace?” Cam asked.
Wilym’s expression told Cam that the other had shared the same thought. “I hope Donelan meant what he said about coming straight to the palace. We both look like we’ve been to war, and we smell like a sewer!”
The portcullis had been dropped, blocking their entry into the palace. Soldiers behind the gate motioned for them to leave their horses outside and come through a door in the thick bailey wall that allowed only single-file entry. Cam and Wilym motioned for the servants to help them hurriedly unbuckle their armor, hoping to leave the worst of the blood and muck behind. Heeding Donelan’s orders, they did not take time to clean the grime from their faces and hands, although Cam cast a longing look at a trough of fresh water as they ran for the palace door.
Inside, Allestyr was waiting for them. “Thank the Goddess you’re safe. The king asked me to send you to the Council Chamber as soon as you arrived.”
“What’s going on?” Wilym asked.
Allestyr looked from Cam to Wilym. “The king’s in chambers with The Council. He’s arguing to muster the army to defend the coastline.”
The men took the stairs two at a time, with Wilym leading the way. At the entrance to the Council Chamber, they slowed. The guards at the door gave a sharp rap, and Tice, one of the king’s advisors, leaned out. “Good. You’re here. Come in.”
Cam drew a deep breath and followed Wilym into the chamber.
“Perhaps that’s not a bad idea,” Lord Mannon spoke. His arms were crossed and he sat back sullenly in his chair. Cam had the thought that perhaps he and Wilym were not the only ones facing a long battle this night.
“Are you completely mad? Do you have any idea what you’re saying?” Count Renate was purple in the face with rage.
“A kingdom can’t exist in anarchy. If it takes a dark summoner to put things in order, then perhaps it’s a gift from the Lady,” Mannon retorted.
“A curse from the Formless One, you mean!” Renate looked as if he were about to launch himself across the table. Cam glanced at the other faces. Donelan sat, stony faced, at the head of the table. Next to him was Kellen, head of the palace guard and a trusted protector. To Donelan’s other side was Tice, whose thin face clearly showed his displeasure with the way the debate was going. Lady Marja sat beside Tice. Her eyes were bright with emotion, but Cam could not guess whose side she was on. Beside her, Baron Tahvo’s fists were balled.
“Isencroft does not have the manpower or the will to wage a war. Our own people are burning the city as we argue!” Duke Yrje’s voice cut through the debate.
“Yrje, you’re an ass,” snapped Tahvo. “We have no choice. Isencroft has never stood by and let invaders take our land.”
“Unless they marry into the family.” Mannon’s face was flushed and it was clear his blood was high for a fight.
“Silence!” Donelan’s roar quieted the room. “Wilym, report!”
Wilym squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “With the help of the battle mages, the rebels were stopped. The worst of the fires have been put out, and my men remain with the other soldiers and the mages to mop up.”
“How do you expect to fight a foreign invader when we can’t stop the damn Divisionists?” Mannon’s tone was acerbic. “Where are your conscripts going to come from, and how will you keep them from knifing you in the back?”
Donelan’s barely contained rage made his eyes glint. “Cam, give The Council the full report you gave me from Brunnfen. Hold back nothing.”
Cam swallowed hard and moved to stand beside Wilym. He repeated the account he had provided to Donelan, leaving out no detail, even though his cheeks flamed with the shame of Alvior’s treachery. Although he did his best not to look at the Council while he spoke, he had the sinking feeling that even if the Formless One and her Wild Host were at the gates of Aberponte, Mannon and Yrje would remain resolute. When he finished, the chamber was quiet for a moment, and then Yrje leaned forward.
“I would ask Your Majesty exactly what we would be protecting if we raise the army for this supposed ‘threat.’ ”
Donelan glowered. “Isencroft.” Though the king did not say it, Cam was certain that Donelan had mentally added, You idiot.
“But we’ve already given Isencroft as a wedding gift to Margolan. What is a joint throne if not a peaceful coup? Our heir has been brokered off to marry the king of our hereditary enemy, the kingdom that has attempted to invade Isencroft more times in our history than any other. Sire, the invasion has already been accomplished, and we are but a Margolan territory.”
Renate rose to his feet and in one, swift moment hurled his wine at Yrje, dousing the man. “What kind of treason are you spouting, Yrje? We’ve been at peace with Margolan for a generation.”
Yrje shook himself off and gave a killing look at Renate. “Perhaps that’s because the Margs took with a betrothal contract what they always wanted to seize with an army.”
“We’ve been over this before-”
“Been over what? Been over how we delivered our heir like a purchased whore right to the Margolan doorstep?” Yrje spat.
“Look around yourself, Yrje.” Tahvo’s voice was like ice. “Neither the Margs nor the king caused three poor harvests in a row. Naught but the Crone brought plague on us. The alliance with Margolan makes sense, and if we’re about to be invaded by Temnotta, then we can be damn glad that Margolan is an ally instead of a worry.”
“You think Margolan would risk a hair on its king’s head to save Isencroft?” Yrje was standing now, shaking with rage. “For all we know, they’re in league with Temnotta. Margolan’s army doesn’t have the manpower to invade us, but they could let Temnotta do their dirty work and then share the spoils.”
“Enough!” Once again, Donelan’s growl brought the room to silence. He got to his feet and sent a sheaf of papers and his goblet flying from the table with a sweep of his arm. “Isencroft is endangered from within by the Divisionists and from outside by Temnotta. We must fight.”
“Fighting is not an option.” Mannon’s face was set. “Perhaps we can win an accommodation from Temnotta. We have no issue with them.”
“Are you deaf?” Renate’s voice was loud enough to make himself heard even if Mannon were hard of hearing. “We already know Alvior has a deal with Temnotta. And we know Alvior used his gold to support the Divisionists. The die is cast, Mannon. Temnotta comes to our shores as an invader, with a puppet king already in hand. We must fight, or die.”
“Our city is on fire, burned by our own people. There’s your ‘no confidence’ vote if ever there was one,” Mannon shot back.
“And you hope to do what with your accommodation?” Contempt was thick in Renate’s voice. “Keep the Temnottans from pillaging your lands while they loot the rest of the country? Hand over our women so long as they keep their hands off your daughters?”
“Ask Donelan. He knows all about handing over a daughter to invaders.”
Renate’s answer was a punch that caught Mannon square in the jaw and bowled him over the back of his heavy chair. Lady Marja screamed. Kellen rose to his feet, protecting Donelan, and both Cam and Wilym closed ranks around the king.
Mannon rose to his feet slowly and waved off assistance from Yrje. Tahvo had gone to stand beside Renate, and from the look of him, he was ready to finish the fight if Mannon came at him.
“It’s clear the crown seeks capitulation and not counsel,” Mannon said, rubbing his jaw. “I am through with this charade.” With that, Mannon turned and stalked from the chamber, with Yrje close at his heels. Lady Marja looked as if she meant to call after them, and then sank back into her seat miserably. Renate and Tahvo still looked ready to fight, and neither one of them made a move to stand down until Donelan cleared his throat.
“That went about as well as I expected,” Donelan said and sighed. He motioned for the others to sit, and waved Cam and Wilym forward to take the seats vacated by Mannon and Yrje. “Let them carry that tale back with them.”
Lady Marja glanced sharply at the king. “You suspect their loyalty?”
Donelan shrugged. “I suspect the loyalty of any man with more spleen than spine.” He leaned forward. Cam thought that Donelan suddenly looked older and very tired. “Let me make myself completely clear. There will be war, and it will be hard fought. I don’t know whether or not we can win, but I’m damn sure not going to make an accommodation with a traitor.” He sighed and passed a hand over his forehead as if a headache pounded in his temples.
“Tonight won’t be the last of the riots. People are scared and hungry. The plague advances farther into Isencroft every day. By the Whore! I don’t even know if we can field an army, or how long we can hold the line. But I will not give up the crown or give an inch of land without a fight.” Donelan’s eyes narrowed. He looked in turn to each one seated around the table. “Where do you stand?”
Kellen and Tice pushed their chairs back and knelt. Cam and Wilym stepped up and knelt beside them. One by one, Marja, Renate, and Tahvo joined them.
“We will support you with our lives, lands, and honor, my king,” said Renate, his voice catching.
Cam could see the emotion in Donelan’s eyes. “Thank you,” Donelan said wearily. “Ready your people. Those who can fight should muster. Have the rest put back supplies for your households.” He looked to Tice. “Work with Allestyr to provision the castle for a siege, and then work with the generals to supply them for war.”
Donelan’s gaze fell to Cam and Wilym. “I know your men are tired. I’ve asked a lot of them, and I’m going to have to ask more.”
“They’re ready, my liege,” said Wilym. “Ready and willing to serve.”
Donelan nodded. “Good. Let them know what we’re up against. The Veigonn will be the last line of defense if Alvior’s goal is the crown.”
“Alvior’s mine.” They all turned to look at Cam. He barely recognized his own voice, thick with anger. “I want to be the one who kills him, for the troubles he’s brought down on Margolan and for betraying his kingdom.” Cam held up his maimed hand. “And I owe him for this.”
“May Chenne grant your vow,” Donelan murmured. He motioned for them to rise, looking genuinely touched. “Realize that your loyalty may place each of you in danger. It’s clear the Divisionists are hardly vanquished. Go nowhere without a trusted armed guard. Our numbers are few enough. We can’t afford to give those bastards any more of an advantage than they already have.”
Renate, Marja, and Tahvo each bowed low and kissed Donelan’s ring in fealty, reaffirming their loyalty before they left. With a nod and a glance that seemed to speak volumes, Tice went to find Allestyr to begin preparations, and Kellen went to stand guard inside the door. Cam and Wilym lingered, and Donelan waved at them to sit back down.
Donelan went to the decanter of brandy that sat on a table near the fireplace, and he poured three generous measures, returning with nearly full goblets for each of them. Donelan sank heavily into his chair, nearly sloshing his brandy.
“By the Crone’s tits! I hope you appreciate the restraint it took not to put my sword through Mannon’s tongue!”
Wilym and Cam chuckled, accustomed to Donelan’s dark humor. “I was actually wondering how put out you’d be with me if I had slipped a blade between Yrje’s ribs.” Wilym’s tone was dry, and Cam wasn’t quite sure how much Wilym was joking.
Donelan chuckled. “Now there’s a pleasant fantasy. Perhaps I’ll fall asleep tonight picturing it.” He shook his head. “Dark Lady take my soul! This is not the legacy I’d hoped to leave Isencroft.” The smile faded from his face, and his eyes grew dark.
“Have you heard from the other kingdoms? Will they give aid?” Wilym sipped at his drink, and from his expression, Cam knew Wilym was already formulating battle plans.
Donelan nodded. “I’m trying not to take it as a bad omen that all of them sent replies by vayash moru to shave time off the trip. Kalcen is readying his army, and he says we can count on him to hold their coast. Of all the allied kingdoms, Eastmark is probably in the best position to defend itself. Plague hasn’t taken hold there, and their last harvest was good. Word came from Principality that their mercs would rise to the cause, but Staden’s seneschal added a note that the king is very ill.”
“Jonmarc Vahanian is Princess Berwyn’s liegeman,” Cam said quietly. “If war comes, he’ll be at the forefront. I know Dark Haven will rally.”
“Tris Drayke pledged his support, of course, but that’s a thorny problem.” Donelan took a long drink of his brandy and sighed as it burned down his throat. “We don’t dare let the Margolan army onto Isencroft soil, and it’s anyone’s guess whether Tris can put much of a force together, after all they’ve been through over there.”
“What of their navies?” Wilym asked.
Donelan shrugged ill-humoredly. “I’m not entirely sure what Eastmark has in ships. Principality runs its navy the same way it runs its army. It provides sanctuary to mercenaries and privateers who pledge never to sell sword against them. The letter from Principality said they had the gold to assure the privateers’ loyalty. Margolan never has had much of a navy, but I believe Tris when he says he’ll bring everything they have against the invaders. Damn it all to the Abyss!”
“Do you believe what the Oracle said? That this could be a War of Unmaking?” Cam asked quietly.
“You know what I usually think of those shrouded biddies,” Donelan grumbled. “Skulking around without showing their faces, always talking in blasted riddles. It’ll be a War of Unmaking for the poor bastards who die on the field, that’s for certain. As for the rest of us,” he said and paused, then upended the rest of his brandy. “I’ll worry about chaos after we make it through the battle.”
Donelan stood abruptly and stretched. “Damn, I wish Viata were here.” He looked up at the painting of his late wife that graced the wall above the mantel. Viata stood tall and proud, forever young, with the darkly beautiful features that made her royal Eastmark heritage clear. She wore the signet of the queen of Isencroft clearly on her right hand, and at her throat was a necklace with the crest of Eastmark, although Cam knew that her father, King Radomar, never forgave her for marrying Donelan.
“She was a fine woman, very brave, and shrewd about things like war. She was Radomar’s heir in backbone, that’s for certain,” Donelan said wistfully. He set his glass aside and closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Ah well, perhaps it’s best she didn’t see these dark days.”
Donelan turned back to them, and it was as if he willed his mood to lift. “Well then, if we’re headed to war, I want to hunt tomorrow. The stag are plentiful, and if we go to war I’m likely to miss another shot at them. I’d prefer a winter hunt, but there’s no telling where we’ll be by the time the snow flies.” He nodded toward Wilym and Cam. “You’ll come with me. A good hunt clears the head. It’ll take time for the army to be ready to march. No one will miss us tomorrow.”
“Are you sure it’s safe, Your Majesty?” Wilym asked.
Donelan snorted. “I doubt Alvior managed to win over the king’s deer to his treason. Bring along a guard or two if you must, but mind that you don’t plan to march a squadron into the woods. You’ll scare off all the game!”
Wilym chuckled. “Yes, m’lord. As you wish.”
Donelan looked at Cam. “You’d best get that silversmith of yours outfitted. You’ll need a battle squire.”
“Rhistiart? I hardly think-”
Donelan’s gaze was shrewd. “He’s loyal and he’s proven that he can keep a clear head under pressure. That’s more than I can say for most men. These are hard times, m’lad. He’ll have to do.”
Cam was sure Donelan could read his uncertainty in his expression, but he nodded. “He wanted an adventure. I think he’s already gotten more than he bargained for, but I’ll tell him.”
Donelan clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Good. Now both of you, make sure you’re ready for the hunt tomorrow. It may be quite a long time before we have the chance to do this again, and I want to enjoy every minute of it.”
The next day dawned clear and crisp. The Feast of the Departed at the equinox was still more than a week away, but the air had already turned cold in Isencroft. Cam felt his spirits come close to lifting for the first time since he had left Brunnfen. A glance at Wilym told Cam that the head of the Veigonn was almost enjoying the day as well. They’d left their horses tethered at the edge of the forest. Now, Donelan, Cam, Wilym, and two guards walked silently through the forest armed with bows in search of a prize stag.
It was the kind of sacrifice Donelan would only have made for war. Cam knew that Donelan much preferred to hunt when snow lay on the ground. Donelan was an expert tracker, and a good bit of his enjoyment came from the skill of finding his quarry. Cam also knew that the king was quite partial to venison. Although the king had helped to cull the herd earlier in the year when starvation threatened to weaken the deer, those had not been trophy hunts. Today’s hunt might give Donelan a rack of antlers and bragging rights for the season.
Donelan moved slightly ahead, watching for deer. The two guardsmen were unwillingly forced to spread out, flanking the group to drive game into the king’s path. Cam and Wilym watched the forest, but their interest was in protecting the king, and not in the wildlife.
The brush to his right shuddered and something streaked from cover. Cam had his bow leveled before his mind recognized that a rabbit had been flushed from cover. He held his shot and gave Wilym a grin.
“Must be my stomach aiming. I’m as fond of rabbit stew as I am of venison!”
Wilym returned the smile, but it did not reach his eyes. Instead, he continued to scan the brush for trouble. But as the morning wore on without incident, even he began to relax, just a little.
A pheasant burst from its cover, scared into flight by their approach. This time, Cam’s arrow flew, catching the bird through the breast. It fell with a soft thump, and Cam tied off its legs and slung it over his shoulder.
Suddenly, Donelan stopped. He gestured silently for Cam and Wilym to freeze, and motioned ahead. Through the brush, Cam could just see a large rack of antlers. Donelan moved forward in a crouch, putting more room between himself and the others, drawing his bow for the shot.
Two arrows sang through the air. Donelan’s arrow found its mark, lodging in the stag’s shoulder, but in the same breath, a quarrel flew from the branches of a tree behind them, catching the king through the back.
“Up there!” Wilym shouted, running to cover the king, his own bow drawn and ready.
Cam gave a shout and launched himself at the tree where the bowman had hidden. He could hear the other soldiers crashing through the brush to get to them, but his full attention was on the tree.
Another quarrel tore through the air, barely missing Cam. Cam dove and lunged, coming up on the far side of the tree. Despite his bulk, Cam moved with surprising speed, something his opponents seldom realized until it was too late. And while Cam’s bad leg shaved some time off his run, his upper body, muscular from a decade of wielding heavy swords, was easily up to the task of hauling himself into the branches and helping him scramble toward where the attacker hid.
“Guard the king!” Cam shouted to the soldiers. Yet another quarrel flew past him, but it went wide and sank into a branch over his head. Cam had dropped his bow, and he carried a knife between his teeth. He peered around the trunk, and another quarrel shot past him, flying wild as leaves and branches sent it off course. It was enough for Cam to get an idea of where the shooter was. In one fluid movement, Cam stood and released his knife. Heavier than the quarrel, the blade cut through the small branches without losing its course. Cam heard the blade strike flesh. A man cried out, and as Cam stepped around the trunk for a better view, he saw a man falling, spread-eagled, to the ground below.
By the time Cam shinnied down the tree, the two soldiers stood over the downed man. They, too, had slung their bows over their shoulders, and they held the prisoner at sword’s point. In the field, Wilym knelt beside the king. Donelan wasn’t moving, and Cam felt his heart in his throat as he ran to Wilym.
“Is he-”
Wilym shook his head and Donelan groaned. “He’s alive. Thanks to the chain mail he’s got on under his shirt, it’s not as bad as it could have been, although since the bowman was above us, the angle made it penetrate more than a straight shot should have.”
“Do we move him or have someone ride for Trygve?” Trygve, the king’s personal battle healer, was back at Aberponte. It would be a candlemark’s ride one way, a long time to lie bleeding in a field.
Wilym shook his head. “I certainly haven’t got Trygve’s gift, but there’s a bit of hedge witch in my blood, enough to do some basic field healing. Cover us.” With that, Wilym closed his eyes and let his hands hover just above where the thick shaft of the quarrel protruded from the king’s shoulder. After a moment, Wilym frowned, and then let out his breath and opened his eyes.
“It’s torn up some muscle and sinew, but it missed the artery, thank the Lady. He’ll need Trygve to patch him up good as new if he means to fight soon, but, with the king’s permission, I can get the arrowhead out safely. As far as I can tell, it wasn’t poisoned. That’s something else to be thankful for.”
“Just pull the damned thing out!” Donelan’s voice was muffled as he lay face down in the grass, but there was no mistaking his imperative.
“This is going to hurt,” Wilym warned.
“Get on with it!”
Cam stood guard over them while Wilym braced himself and then kept up steady traction on the arrow to remove it from where it was lodged. Donelan grunted but did not cry out, although once the arrow was free, Donelan showed a bent for creative cursing that made Cam shake his head in approval.
“Stay still, Your Majesty,” Wilym warned. “I’ve still got to stop the bleeding and do what I can to set the healing on the right path until we can get you to Trygve.”
“Blast that! What about my stag?”
Cam walked toward the brush where they had spotted the antlers. A fresh deer carcass was held upright by a wooden rack, with the body mostly obscured behind brush. The antlers that had tantalized Donelan and lured him into range appeared to have been cobbled together from several pairs, upon closer inspection.
Cam returned to where Donelan sat, impatiently allowing Wilym to bind up his shoulder with strips torn from his shirt. “Well?”
“The deer was a trick. Someone knew you were planning to hunt and had a fondness for prize stag. The antlers aren’t even real.”
“By the Whore! Bring me the man who shot at me. I want answers!” Donelan was as angry as Cam had ever seen him, and Cam had the distinct impression that the king was as enraged about losing his deer as he was about the attempt on his life.
Cam motioned for the two soldiers to bring their prisoner forward. They had bound the man’s wrists, but they left Cam’s knife where it was, buried deep in the man’s back. From the way the prisoner was struggling to breathe, Cam’s aim had been truer than the assassin’s, and their attacker had obviously not thought to wear armor.
“Who sent you?” Donelan’s voice was firm, although what remained of his shirt was soaked with blood.
The prisoner raised his head, and it was the first good look Cam had gotten at the man’s face. He had the look of the Isencroft hills, and when he spoke, his accent confirmed Cam’s guess. “Death to traitors!” He spat in Donelan’s direction.
“I’d be careful what you wish for, boy. From where I sit, ’tis treason to fire on your king,” Wilym warned. “Tell us how you knew where we’d hunt, and who helped you, and perhaps one of the Light Faces will take pity on your soul.”
“You thought you broke us, but we’re stronger than you know,” the would-be assassin boasted, and choked on blood. “We’re everywhere, hidden in plain sight. And we won’t rest until Isencroft remains independent!”
“Funny way to show your loyalty, trying to kill the king,” Wilym said, prodding the man with the point of his sword.
Donelan’s eyes narrowed. “You can tell me now, or we can wait until you’re dead. My daughter’s husband is a very powerful summoner. I bet he could get your ghost to tell me what we want to know.”
“You can try.”
Donelan and Wilym exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. “Bind him and haul him back to the palace. We’ll let the battle mages have a turn at him, see what they can get from him.”
“The hunt was a last-minute idea,” Cam said thoughtfully. “How many people knew?”
The soldiers trussed the prisoner to drag him back to the horses. Wilym and Cam offered their hands to Donelan as the king got to his feet, but Donelan waved them off. “No one but Kellen was with us when the king proposed it last night,” Wilym said thoughtfully.
“And I’d trust Kellen with my life,” Cam said.
Wilym nodded. “So would I. After we left the king last night, I spoke to our escorts personally,” he said, with a glance to the soldiers. “We were also alone, and they were quartered for the night.”
“We saw no one and spoke to no one, sir,” said the guard closest to Wilym.
Wilym frowned, thinking. “After that, I went down to the stables to see that the horses would be ready, and I spoke to the king’s groom directly.”
“Were there others about?” Cam asked.
Wilym shrugged. “It was late. I don’t remember seeing anyone, but someone might have been within earshot. It wasn’t intended to be a secret mission.” He shook his head. “But I didn’t say anything about where we meant to hunt. This fellow didn’t follow us, hoping for a lucky shot. It took some time to set up that deer and make it look convincing, and then to get into position in that tree. Even the guards didn’t know where the king wanted to hunt.”
Donelan grunted. “I’ve had my eye on this spot for a while. Haven’t told anyone, but I had a feeling that I’d find a good stag here. Wasn’t about to talk about it and have someone beat me to it!”
“So that means that no one heard it from the king and stored it away for future use,” Wilym said. “That cuts down the suspects.”
“Did you talk with anyone else?”
Wilym thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, I went to the armory after that to get the king’s bow. Derry wasn’t there, but his assistant was very helpful.” His eyes widened. “Chatty, in fact. We were talking about where the deer have been plentiful this year, and he told me his favorite spots.” Wilym sighed. “I can’t believe how stupid I was. I told him enough about where we were headed that someone might have figured it out from that. I never thought-”
“Not your fault, lad, though in the future, I’ll thank you to treat my favorite hunting spots like the state secret they deserve to be,” Donelan said. “I’d trust Derry with my soul, but I don’t know his assistant. Hasn’t been with us much over a year.”
Cam and Wilym exchanged glances. “We still don’t know if it’s the assistant who betrayed you, or whether he told someone else, who used the information,” Cam said.
“It makes a short trail to follow. When we get back, I’ll bring him in for questioning. Could be, like you say, that he mentioned it in passing. We’ll find out.” From the look on Wilym’s face, Cam knew the other was blaming himself for the breach.
Cam nudged their prisoner with the toe of his boot. “Hear that? Whoever your man is inside the palace, we’ll get him.”
The assassin’s face was pale. From the bluish cast to his skin, Cam wondered whether the man would make it back to the palace. But the glint in his eyes was defiant. “Cut one down, and another will spring up. Isencroft must be free!”
“Gag him,” Wilym said to the guards, with a nod toward the prisoner. He walked over, knelt next to the man, and let his hands hover over the wound as he had done for Donelan. This time, Cam noticed, Wilym kept his eyes open. Wilym jerked the knife clear and the prisoner groaned. For a few minutes, Wilym worked over the wound. “That should keep him from dying before we reach Aberponte. We’ll see if he changes his mind about being helpful. If not, well-”
“If he isn’t helpful, hang him,” Donelan said. “That’s getting off easy for trying to kill the king. It would serve him right to be drawn and quartered, for losing me my stag!”
Now that the prisoner realized that death would not spare him imprisonment and interrogation, fear replaced defiance in his eyes. “He’s not kidding about the stag,” Wilym said in a cold voice. “The king takes his hunt very personally. If you want a quick death, and a painless one, you might want to cooperate.” Wilym gave the man a cold smile that was ominous.
For the first time, the assassin looked uncertain. Though he said nothing as the guards manhandled him toward the horses, Cam would have bet money that Wilym and the mages would get what they needed from the man if it came down to a choice between the gallows or worse.
“Whoever’s working with him probably isn’t the only traitor inside the palace,” Wilym said to Cam as they moved ahead, out of earshot of the prisoner. They stayed a pace behind the king, with their swords drawn.
“It’s not necessarily the servants who are disloyal,” Cam said. “It could be anyone they speak to outside the palace, from the woodcutters to their families.”
Wilym nodded. “Give me a foreign enemy any day. This disloyalty from within is like leprosy. A kingdom can’t stand when no one can trust his fellow countrymen.”
Even if we can defeat Alvior and his dark summoner, what will the war do to Isencroft? Cam worried. I can see what it’s done to Margolan to unseat Jared. It could take a generation to repair the damage the Divisionists have done. Lady Bright! We haven’t mustered the army yet, but the war’s already begun.