An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 22

Starhaven, Sidor

Edmund shifted papers around his desk, tired from a long day of audiences. He had already not had enough time in the day to deal with the matters of state when he had Serwyn to handle the audiences, most of which mattered not at all. Nobles and representatives of barons either begging for favors or offering pleasantries and adulation, in hopes of getting the same favors from another direction.

Listening to them was a waste of time, but one he had to do, especially now. He needed to ensure the loyalty of the remaining barons, especially those of Kingsheart. Pushed too far, making them feel too undervalued, could push them into the arms of Garris and Aldric. Besides, although he had wanted to take some of the power back from the less loyal barons, and they had helpfully singled themselves out by declaring for Garris. Once this rebellion was over, he could have them executed and their lands given to people more willing to show the proper respect to the crown.

The only ones that didn’t fit that category were the eastern barons and the entire Duchy of Shadowhold. Shadowhold he wasn’t concerned with, as it was the poorest of the baronies, with much of its land unsuitable for habitation or industry. The eastern barons, however, were another story. Farmland, large sources of lumber, ports and trade routes, and several large mines along the border where the hills from the Shatterstone extended into Kingsheart, those baronies were both profitable and necessary. While many had given the proper homage and resisted Garris’s call to join their rebellion, they had also been less than eager to join the fight against the rebellion.

Each had their reasons. Men in Lynese, damage from the peasants’ revolt, or simply just delaying tactics, that they were sending men, but it would take time. Edmund knew they were hedging their bets, waiting to see who came out ahead.

Even if they didn’t join Garris in the end, they would need to be dealt with when the rebellion was over. For now, he had to listen to their representatives prattle, and pretend to not want to throttle them.

“My lord?” Orlan said, sticking his head into the study.

“You have the latest reports?” Edmund said, waving him into the room.

“As requested, your majesty,” the aide said, coming into the room and shutting the door behind him before laying a sheaf of papers on his desk.

Edmund glared down at them. More paperwork.

“Give me the summary,” Edmund ordered.

“Things go well in Iron Keep. Duke Cadogan’s forces have secured Darian hills and parts of the central farmlands. Once they take the Everwood, they will have half to the peninsula in their possession, including the most fertile land. While not a major food producer, limited access to Kingshold’s farmland and their most fertile territory will make the winter difficult, should this extend that long.”

“It better not. I do not want this rebellion to stretch out any further than it needs to. And they will not be completely starved out. River Mark has the most productive farms in the kingdom. If anything, we will suffer more than they, with Aldric publicly declaring for them.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Still,” Edmund said. “It is excellent news. I hoped Cadogan’s men would change the balance of things, but I had not expected them to be this successful this quickly. Now we must think about. Once Garris is pushed back far enough, caught between our baronies and the icelanders, he will retreat into their mountain strongholds. I want to avoid that if possible, as it will take years to dig them out.”

“While I am not a tactician like yourself, I do not believe we can conduct a fight against the River Mark and still have enough men to march up the Greenway and get behind him. Reports are he still has men blocking the passes into the Keep, making it an extended effort to break through.”

“Hmm,” Edmund said, frowning and looking down at his hands as he thought.

“But,” Orlan added. “Once they have pulled into the mountains we can have men circle around, the coasts at the edge of the mountains and have our ships hold the iron straits, cutting off food shipments. We can starve them out.”

“Garris is not stupid, he will have put in supplies, prepared for this.”

“As you say, your highness. Once they withdraw, pull their men in behind them, wouldn’t it be the end of their rebellion? They will surrender any real influence. Their allies will desert them, seeing no benefit in supporting lords who can’t project power beyond their own walls.”

“Most likely. Still a slow process,” Edmund said, pausing for a moment and then waving the thought off. “What about the fight in the River Mark? If anything, that campaign is more important, as it will cut Garris off even further. Having a member of the bloodline supporting him gives him much more legitimacy than he’d otherwise have.”

Orlan’s demeanor changed subtly. “The situation remains... fluid, Your Majesty. Additional forces continue to gather at Twyver.”

Edmund frowned. “Still gathering? I received reports they had already assembled their army. They were meant to be retaking those towns Sinclair’s rebels had seized.”

“There have been... new developments in that region, Your Majesty.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Perhaps Your Majesty should read this report directly.” He extended a sealed message with trembling fingers.

“Don’t play coy with me, Orlan.” Edmund’s voice carried an edge of warning. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“I...” Orlan swallowed hard. “We received a wyvern from Twyver, Your Majesty. Our army that marched south was destroyed.”

“What?” Edmund said, pushing himself out of his chair. “Destroyed? That’s impossible. They outnumbered Aldric’s forces three to one.”

“We still do not have a complete view of what happened, as very few men returned, and none of those were the senior commanders. But, from the survivors’ report, they had breached Treweg’s defenses and were on the wall when a second army appeared from the Horn Road. They were caught between a hammer and an anvil, Your Majesty.”

“A second army? Where did Aldric find enough men to field another force? His peasant levies were stretched thin already.”

“It wasn’t immediately clear as to the banners... They flew a black lion on white, a bastardization of the crown’s banner.”

“Who would dare?”

“I believe... the army was led by your son William.”

The blood drained from Edmund’s face. “William?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Our agent in Cloud Bay sent word that two dozen ships landed there a week past. Men and horses under Prince William’s command. They noted his chosen banner in the report.”

“That’s not possible.” Edmund’s words came out flat and cold. “The Leviathan Straits are impassable. No one sails into Kingsheart Bay.”

“They made it across somehow, Your Majesty. The reports are clear, William leads them.”

Edmund sank into his chair as he struggled to accept the implications. The boy had returned to Sidor not to support him, but to aid rebels against the crown. Against his father.

“How many men?”

“Nearly a thousand. It seems to be mostly veterans from the Lynesian campaign, knights and men-at-arms who fought under Prince William’s command.”

“My own son.” Edmund said, stuck on the news that William led them. “After all I’ve done to him.”

“If I may, Your Majesty,” Orlan ventured, “There is one piece of encouraging news. One of our men came along with his army.”

“Why didn’t he send word of this beforehand? A warning could have prevented the disaster at Treweg.”

“I can only speculate, but given the secretive nature of their crossing, Prince William likely restricted all communication to maintain surprise. Any message might have exposed them,” Orlan said, and then paused. “Now that they’re ashore, we should receive word from him soon.”

“Let us hope so. We cannot allow them time to gather more strength. The eastern barons have delayed long enough with their excuses. Send messages to every baron between here and Twyver. Tell them I want their forces mustered and marching within three days, or I’ll consider their hesitation an act of treason.”

“The threat may push some toward Sinclair’s cause,” Orlan warned.

“Then let them declare themselves openly as traitors,” Edmund snapped. “I’ll not have them playing both sides while my enemies grow stronger. Make it clear, they either stand with their rightful king now, or face the consequences of rebellion. And send word to Duke Cadogan. Tell him to press his advantage in Iron Keep. The faster he can force Sinclair to retreat into his mountains, the sooner we can turn our full attention to crushing this threat in River Mark.”

“What of Prince William, Your Majesty?”

“He made his choice when he sailed those straits. He’s chosen to stand with traitors against his king and father. When we meet him in battle, he’ll receive the same treatment as any other rebel.”

Orlan bowed and backed toward the door, leaving Edmund alone with his thoughts and the growing darkness outside his window. He had taken the boy into his home, and even kept him after his mother died, and this was the thanks he got.

So be it.

***

Alther Bay

Baron Lorreen Rokeby stood at the prow of the reinforced trawler, wind whipping at his hair and tugging at the coarse wool of his practical riding cloak. Even midsummer, this far up the north end of the bay, with the frigid waters coming in through the narrows, the weather was always cool. In winter months, he could almost march across the frozen waters.

It wasn’t winter now, however, and he was worried about things other than men marching across ice. The Icelanders were making staggering progress down the peninsula. His barony, protected by the thick Everwood forest, had managed to avoid being taken, but the northerners were making progress and he wasn’t sure how much longer he would have. Meanwhile, Garris would soon have to decide whether to retreat into the mountains or try and make a hold.

Without reinforcements, it would be all but impossible to hold the line on his own. Which is what led to this desperate gamble. With Daunton Isle firmly in the pocket of the crown, Rokeby was the closest thing to an expert on the bay and its trade that the duchy had left, so he’d been tapped with this desperate maneuver.

The only thing he had going for him was that the Icelanders traded very little by sea, with their northern waters being impassable almost year-round and it being simpler to ship goods into Kingsheart, and let brokers there handle it.

Iron Keep was a peninsula, with a wide mountain range at one end. Aside from the Greenway, waterborne trade was the majority of how the duchy got its foreign goods and it fed its people as much on fish as farm goods. Which meant they had ship captains who knew what they were doing.

Ship captains may have been a leap. Most of these vessels could hold at most ten or fifteen men, some less, while a full cog could have upward of forty soldiers not counting the crew of the ship. They’d had boats shadowing the Icelander ports, which is how they knew the reinforcements were coming, just over a dozen ships’ worth. With his forty-nine boats, he would still be undermanned for this.

Not that he’d been given a choice. Garris had asked him to stop the reinforcements, and this was as good as he could manage.

The cry came from the prow. “The enemy fleet.”

Rokeby raised his spyglass, studying the approaching vessels through the morning haze. The Icelander warships were impressive - proper military vessels with high sides, but equipped for transport, not war. Instead of archers on the side, he could see stacks of supplies for the troops already sitting on their lands.

Rokeby had a moment of ambition. Sinking the enemy ships was an option, but if he could capture them, bring the ships and their supplies back, it would greatly help the duchy’s defense efforts.

“Signal the fleet,” he ordered. “They are to execute the plan.”

Each ship had men he could trust, or at least men his officers could trust, to keep their civilian crews on task. He knew the crews would do their best. Their families were in danger as much as anyone else, but once fighting started, often motivation was not enough to get over the fear.

A boy barely old enough to grow whiskers approached with a horn in his trembling hands. “Shall I sound the call, m’lord?”

“Not yet, lad.” Rokeby clapped him on the shoulder. “Let them get a bit closer first. We want them nice and deep in the bay before we spring our trap.”

He turned to address the crew gathered on deck, his voice carrying over the whistle of the wind. “Remember why we’re here! Those Icelander bastards think they can just sail right up to our shores and take what they want. But we’re going to show them the difference between raiding some helpless fishing village and facing real seafolk who know these waters!”

The men cheered, though Rokeby noted more than a few pale faces among them. It wasn’t a lost cause, though. They had advantages their enemies didn’t expect.

“You there, watch the damn shallows,” the weathered fishing captain said, pointing off the left side of the boat. “Catch on that damn sandbar and we’ll have to dig them out. Won’t be free for a day. I thought you said these men knew these waters. Fools.”

Rokeby let a small smile show on his lips at the man’s antics, but otherwise kept his attention riveted on the ships in the distance. They’d picked this time well. These northern parts, where the warmer waters of the south end of the bay met the frigid waters coming through the narrows, created a thick fog every morning.

If the Icelanders had been half smart, they would have waited till midday when it burned off. But they were being pressed to end things quickly, and letting that override what should be better judgment.

The Icelander fleet drew steadily closer, their square sails bright against the steel-gray sky. They maintained a tight formation, clearly expecting to simply muscle their way through any resistance. Rokeby allowed himself a small smile. Let them come thinking that.

“Now, lad,” he said to the horn-bearer. “Give them our greeting.”

Smaller ships peeled away from their hiding spots along the coastline at the sound of the horns, emerging from the fog.

“Hard to starboard!” the captain called. “Keep the wind at our backs!”

His vessel cut through the waves, leading the charge. Behind him, fishing boats and merchant vessels formed into fairly tight groups, in spite of their ragtag nature.

“They’re forming ranks, m’lord,” the fishing captain said, pointing toward the enemy fleet.

The Icelander vessels were indeed drawing together, their captains apparently recognizing the threat despite their smaller size. Unfortunately, it was the wrong strategy for what he had planned.

“Perfect.” Rokeby turned to his signalman. “Flag the Daggerfish, Maiden’s Kiss, and Sea Witch. Tell them it’s time.”

Three of his faster ships broke from the main group, accelerating toward the center of the Icelander formation. The enemy responded predictably, their larger vessels turning to present their sides to the apparent threat, men with spears and truncheons appearing at the sides.

“Look at that,” Rokeby said to the nervous boy next to him. “Big ships like that, they’re slow to turn. Watch what happens next.”

The three ships maintained their course until the last possible moment, then split apart, each veering in a different direction. The Icelander vessels, already committed to their turns, could only watch as their targets slipped past them.

“Sound general attack,” Rokeby ordered. The horn blared again, repeated from ship to ship, sending his ships springing into action.

Smaller vessels darted between the larger ships, crews hurling insults and occasional arrows. The Icelanders tried to maintain formation, but found themselves constantly adjusting to deal with threats from multiple directions.

“Bring us alongside the lead ship,” Rokeby told his helmsman. “Signal the Seabird and Storm’s Daughter to follow our lead.”

His chosen vessels closed in on their target, a particularly large cog with additional banners atop it that designated it as the lead ship of the fleet.

“Ready the hooks!” he shouted.

The Icelander vessel’s captain seemed to realize the danger too late. His ship began a ponderous turn, but Rokeby’s smaller vessel was already too close.

“Fire!” he ordered.

The few archers he had targeted the enemy crew, forcing them to abandon their positions. Without hands on the ropes and helm, the large ship’s movements became even more sluggish. That wasn’t what he’d been ordering to fire, however.

No ship, or nearly no ship, was taken by archers. No, he’d had scorpians insitalled on each ship, large siege machines capable of fireing bolts as long as a person with barbed metal ends capable of piercing the sides of a ship.

The back of each bolt had thick rope attached, tied off to the ships and able to be wound in once connected. He could see the men on the other ship trying to cut the bolts and their attached ropes, when another smashed into their ship, pulling the two vessels together until they crashed, side be side.

“Now!” Rokeby commanded.

Hooks flew through the air, lines trailing behind them. Several caught on the larger ship’s rails and rigging.

“Pull her in!” The crew heaved on the ropes.

Between the thick cables on the bolts and the grappling hooks, the two vessels were pulled together despite the enemy’s efforts to break free.

“Board them!” Rokeby bellowed, drawing his sword. “Take the deck!”

His men surged up the ropes holding the ships together, scrambling fast. Not all made it. In several places, the enemy stabbed down with spears, catching the men as they came up, but then another boat attached to the ship, and then another on the other side. Quickly, there were too many ropes and not enough men to knock them off. Alongside them, Rokeby’s archers were still firing, picking off men that showed themselves, trying to stab the men boarding.

Rokeby didn’t wait long to follow them. Once a few men were aboard, the Baron went up the rope behind. The first few men aboard’s job was to hold a spot for the rest to follow, and he made it up safely. That safety only lasted until he was aboard the ship.

As soon as he was on the deck, an Icelander rushed at him, axe raised high. Rokeby parried the wild swing and opened the man’s throat with a quick slash. “Push them back from the rails!” he called to his crew. “Don’t let them mass together!”

The deck became a chaos of sliding feet as the already slick deck became drenched in blood. It was hard to tell friend from foe in the mass of grappling bodies. An arrow whizzed past Rokeby’s ear as he cut down another attacker.

“Bloody hells,” a sailor next to him cursed, blocking a spear thrust with his bill hook before snagging the man behind the neck, the sharp prong cutting deep into the man, severing his spine. “These bastards know how to fight!”

They shouldn’t be surprised. Each ship was jammed with seasoned warriors ready to reinforce the men ashore. The thing that Rokeby had on his side was that most were still below deck, to keep them out of the way of the sailors manning the ship. By the time they started to come up, called by the shouts and screams of their sailors, his men were in the doorway, stabbing down, making it hard for them to mass.

Rokeby noted that his men had the situation in hand, freeing him up to focus on something else. The enemy captain fighting down by the stern. Rokeby met him in the middle of the blood-slicked deck. The captain attacked first, swinging wildly, clearly more of a brawler than a trained knight. Rokeby ducked, letting the blade swing cleanly overhead before responding with a thrust that the captain barely deflected.

They traded blows back and forth, neither able to land a decisive hit. The captain was more agile on the rolling deck, but Rokeby had both more experience and more power.

Around them, the battle raged. More of Rokeby’s ships had reached the Icelander fleet. He heard the crunch of wood and screams of men as vessels collided. His smaller, more maneuverable craft darted between the larger ships, their crews boarding from multiple angles.

The enemy captain overextended on a powerful swing. Rokeby stepped inside his guard and rammed his sword through the man’s chest. The Icelanders’ eyes widened in surprise, then dulled as he slumped to the deck.

Seeing their captain go down, it seemed to take some of the fight out of the sailors. The opposite was true of Rokeby’s own men, who redoubled their efforts, pushing the remaining defenders back. Along the rail, Rokeby saw three more of his vessels successfully grappling onto nearby cogs.

A shout near the doorway to the hold drew his attention. The northerners were still trying to fight their way on deck. Rokeby joined the men fighting in the doorway, and peered down the stairs to the hold. Fighting up stairs against spear-armed men was nearly impossible to achieve. The fact that they were still trying was a testament to their bravery.

“You down there,” Rokeby called. “If you keep fighting, we’ll seal the doors and burn the boat to the water line. Come up, hands empty, one at a time, or die on fire, screaming.”

That was enough to do it. The men began to surrender and come up from below.

“Clear the holds! and then secure the supplies,” he told the men still holding the doorways.

The fishing captain, who’d boarded some time during the fight, joined them, wiping blood from a cut above his eye. “Four ships taken so far, m’lord. Three more engaged. The rest are trying to turn back north.”

“Signal the ships not engaged. We need those supplies more than they do.”

He checked the wound in his shoulder where the Icelander captain had caught him with a glancing blow. It wasn’t deep, but it stung fiercely.

“Get me a count of casualties,” he told the fishing captain. “And find out what’s in these holds. Garris will want to know exactly what we’ve captured.”

The sounds of battle continued across the water as more of his ships engaged the enemy. The morning fog was beginning to lift, revealing the full scope of the naval engagement. Rokeby allowed himself a small smile. The Icelanders would think twice before trying to reinforce their troops by sea again.