An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 17

Rendallia City, Rendallia

Isolde wandered through the halls of the keep, her “protector” trailing behind her, a constant shadow. He was not a guardian, not really. More of a watchful jailer, a reminder of her captivity in Rendallia. She’d been excited when she’d first come here with William, free of her father’s control. Yes, she’d been scared, suddenly married off to someone who was, essentially, a stranger. But he wasn’t. Not really.

She’d spent time with him, enough to get a read on him. He was a good man, and every conversation that they’d had before he’d been forced to board the ship and sail back home had only reinforced that belief. That night, here in the city before he’d had to leave, was maybe one of the happiest in her recent memory.

And then he’d left.

She understood why he’d had to go. His people were falling into civil war and he wanted to stop them. If his father was even half of what William had told her, he wasn’t the kind of man she’d want ruling. She’d heard some rumblings about unrest across the Leviathan Straits before the marriage, but William’s explanation was so much worse.

So she didn’t begrudge him leaving, but she’d fallen into a deep loneliness since he’d boarded that ship. Other than the two handmaidens she’d been allowed to bring with her, no one from her ‘old life’ had come with her. She lived in the midst of Sidorians, a stranger in a foreign land.

Sort of foreign.

So she’d taken to just wandering the keep, since every time she tried to venture outside, it was ‘suggested’ to her that it would be safer inside, where she could be ‘protected.’

She paused at the entrance to a room, glancing inside. Baron Pembroke was there, hunched over a desk scattered with documents, with what looked like a large map sitting in front of him. His head lifted as she walked into the room, since he was one of the few Sidorians that would talk to her. He smiled as she walked in, but she couldn’t help but notice him quickly pulling documents over the maps, obscuring them from her.

“Your Highness. A pleasure to see you.”

Isolde waved the guard off, motioning for him to stay outside as she stepped into the room. The man had the audacity to look to Pembroke, who gave him a slight nod, before leaving the room and closing the door behind himself.

“I was just walking. I’ve grown tired of my quarters. Although I would have stayed in them had I known you would so easily remind me how untrusted I am,” she said, pointing at the covered maps.

“It’s not a matter of trust, Your Highness. It’s just... there’s a transition period in situations like this. You’ve only just become a Sidorian. The people here will need time to accept you as one of their own. Your new people don’t take change lightly.”

Isolde sighed, clasping her hands in front of her as she moved closer to the desk.

“I would have hoped you would have more trust in me, seeing how William trusts me. Is it because I continue to advocate for my people,” she said and then paused, correcting herself. “My former people.”

“That would be a part of it. You have to understand we just finished a war with your father, and the tensions between Sidor and Lynese have lasted for several generations. And then you spend your time with us telling us we should give more rights to Lynesians. It makes things... difficult.”

“I only ask that the people who have lived here for their whole lives, whose parents lived here for their whole lives, be treated with some level of fairness. I understand that some of the Lynesian nobles who stayed behind must lose their properties and positions, and most are destined to be sent back to... Lynese,” she said, still having difficulty wrapping her head around the idea that this was no longer Lynese. “My concern is for the other people, the people who will now be ruled by Sidor. I want to know what will happen to them. Will they be allowed to stay and work under Sidorian rule, or will they be sent away? Will their land be taken and given to Sidorian lords?”

“The truth is... I don’t know,” he said after a very long pause.

Isolde’s shoulders slumped. She didn’t know what to say to that. Her people, her former people, were going to be ruined. He’d all but admitted it.

“I wish I had a better answer for you,” Pembroke said, clearly seeing her disappointment. “But I can promise you this, if William and Aldric win, if this unrest back home settles in their favor, they’ll do the right thing.”

“What does that mean, the right thing?”

“William, like his uncle, are believers in doing their duty to the people they rule, and I am certain that would extend to new subjects. In their eyes, it means the poor and the common folk, those who’ve worked the land for generations, will likely continue as they have. They’ll work the land, live under Sidorian law, and pay their obligations to Sidorian lords. But the Lynesian nobles... they won’t be allowed to stay. Not under Sidorian rule.”

She was glad to hear that his estimation of William was close to her own, but she also knew that he was going up against his father. Well, stepfather. And he’d been very specific about what kind of person his father was.

“And if William’s father wins?”

“Then things will be worse. The nobles will be gone, and it’s likely many Lynesians, even the common folk, will be removed. Those who aren’t will likely end up in chains. Forced into indentured labor until they’ve produced enough to satisfy the kingdom’s demands.”

“That’s not a future I want.”

“Nor do I, but these decisions aren’t ours to make. We are here and the fighting is there.”

“What chances does William have of winning?”

“Your Highness, I cannot discuss internal Sidorian politics with you.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“Both. It is not that I do not trust you personally, but …”

“But what? William would tell me. If only you would let me send him a message. Instead, you keep me here like some caged bird.”

“You are not a prisoner, Your Highness. The soldiers are here for your protection. William would be devastated if anything happened to you.”

“A gilded cage is still a cage, my lord.”

Pembroke did not seem to have an answer for that.

Instead, he said, “Even if I wanted to send a message, William is still at sea. And with matters so uncertain at home, we must be cautious about where we send messages to wait for his landfall. Should we send it to a city that is then captured before his arrival, the wyvernry could be seized, our messages intercepted. We need to wait for word from William or Duke Aldric that the situation has stabilized.”

“How long will that take?”

“It is difficult to say. The safer route would take him two weeks, landing him in western Kingsheart. But that is not where he needs to be. His father controls that territory, and would do anything to keep William from combining his men with Aldrics.”

“Then where…?”

“He is taking the slower, more direct path across the Leviathan Straits.”

Isolde felt the blood drain from her face. “But the creatures there... I thought hardly any ships survived that crossing?”

“It is possible, though treacherous. The ships must maintain absolute silence, no lights after dark. They travel in groups, keeping watch in all directions. If they spot anything in the water, they change course immediately.”

And William chose this?”

“It was his only real option if he hoped to reach Sidor in time to make a difference.” Pembroke’s expression softened. “The route around Lynese and through the Great Expanse or north through the frozen sea would take too long. By then, the fighting could be over.”

Isolde said nothing. She had heard tales of the creatures that lived on the sea. Stories passed from person to person, originating with sailors and fishermen who ventured too close to those waters.

“Your Highness?” Pembroke asked after a long moment.

She turned away, not wanting him to see her face. William had seemed so confident when he had left, so certain of his path. She had known he was sailing home, but she had not known he meant to brave the Strait. The thought of him out there now, surrounded by darkness and danger. If he died, where would that leave her? Would she go home to her father, a widow and spinster after only days of marriage? Would she stay here, a permanent hostage?

“I need some air,” she said, moving toward the door.

“Of course. Shall I have someone escort you to the gardens?”

“No.” She paused at the threshold. “I think I would prefer to return to my chambers.”

She did not wait for his response, stepping out into the hallway where her minder waited. As she walked back to her rooms, she thought of William on some ship in the Strait, surrounded by darkness and ancient horrors. When she had agreed to the marriage she had expected politics and intrigue, perhaps even danger from human enemies. But this was different. In that realm, he had shown an ability to survive, even thrive. This was not something a warrior could just best or a politician out debate. And she would be left all alone. Adrift.

Part of her also thought that it was not just her status that she was worried about. She enjoyed William’s company, both before they were married and after. She found him to be a decent man, caring and strong. She thought she would miss him, should he not come back. She found herself hoping he would survive long enough for her to tell him exactly what she thought of his reckless choice.

The guard opened her chamber door, and she entered without a word. Moving to the window, she looked out over the city, toward the harbor.

For now, she could only wait. Wait and hope.

***

Darien Coast, Iron Keep, Sidor

Sir Lionel Chatsworth stood atop the jagged cliff, the briny air biting at his face as he looked down toward the shore below. Easteye Island, the eastern of the pair of islands on the north ends of Alther Bay, jutted out not far in the distance. Not as close as the sisters, but unlike them, without the permanent garrison and placed siege weapons, to protect the narrows that lead into Althear Bay.

Knowing who was coming for them, it had not been hard to figure out where they would be going. The Darien Hills pressed up against the shore, leaving poor landing positions for quite a distance, forcing either a further crossing, that would leave more time for response, or the invaders to climb steep cliffs to get a foothold on this tip of Iron Keep.

There were only a handful of places for landing more than a fishing boat, and this was the best one. Lionel was confident that if they were coming, they were coming here.

If. The baron had warned them that this would be coming. It was the whole reason he’d gone to Stormhaven, to work with the baron to get the forces together to counter it. Everyone had felt confident they had a little time. The Crown forces were spread out along the Thunderhorn and a lot of people were still overseas.

Everyone had been wrong. The fishermen’s warnings had been specific and believable. Ships had sailed from the Icelands side of the bay, cogs whose decks were laden with warriors. Warriors who it was his responsibility to face.

It had been such a great honor when the Baron entrusted him with the keep’s defense while he and the few other trusted knights still in the barony went to join Garris. Lionel wasn’t an idiot. He knew the reason he’d been given this honor was because he was literally the last knighted man still in the barony. They wouldn’t have selected him, a man sworn to the brotherhood less than a year before. Even with that, there had been pride.

That pride had soured into a cold fear. He’d sent Wyverns to the baron, but it would be a week for them to get back, and a day before he could get a response. He knew he didn’t have that much time, and he was determined to do his duty. To prove he was worthy of the honor the baron had given him.

He looked out to the sea again, still thick with morning fog. Part of him wished they would just hurry up, get this wait over with. The rest of him wished the opposite, knowing what would happen when they arrived. The fishermen had said they’d counted almost two dozen ships, enough to carry a large number of men. To counter them he had a few dozen men-at-arms alongside a few hundred hastily conscripted peasants clutching mostly farm tools or the odd rusty sword or spear found in the keep’s stores.

“They’re coming, then,” said Jorvik, the oldest of the men-at-arms who had served the baron for some time.

Too old to go to war in Lynese, but still willing to stand for his baron when called upon.

“The timing couldn’t be worse.”

Jorvik chuckled darkly and slapped him on the shoulder. “Always is, lad. Always is.”

“Get the archers in position on the cliffs. I want a line of spearmen along the narrow path leading down to the beach.”

“That won’t hold them.”

“I know,” Lionel said. “But it’ll be enough to make them bleed for it.”

Jorvik gave him a look, like he was holding him in new estimation. When he saluted, not in a jovial way, but in a serious way, before making his way down the ridge, barking orders as he went.

They hadn’t had to wait much longer. Jorvik had barely gotten the men into position when the sight of sails carrying the sign of the white bear, the frozen bear, painted on them. Six, then ten, then a dozen ships broke into view. Even from his place on the ridge, he could see figures on their decks. Packing them.

The men were in position and all they could do was wait. Wait to watch their death sail out of the fog. The first ship grounded itself on the beach with a grinding crash of wood against stone, their flat bottoms and shallow draft allowing it to push far onto the shore. As soon as they jerked to a stop, long gangplanks flew over the sides, crews scrambling down to secure them.

“Archers!” Lionel called out.

The northmen poured from their ships like ants as his men let loose, raining down on the men and the front of the vessels. It didn’t go unanswered, as arrows came back for them, coming off of bows of the ships.

Less than Lionel would have thought. Which was a bad sign. It meant they’d used the room for ground forces instead. The stream of men became a flood as more ships pushed ashore and threw down their gangplanks. His archers were firing into their mass now, finding targets easy as they charged up the beach toward the slope that led up into the hills above.

“Keep firing. If we fall, run for the keep,” he said to the archers’ commander, who only nodded grimly as Lionel headed to join Jorvik.

He wanted to be with the men when the wall of fur and armor-clad savages swarmed into them.

“Stay shoulder to shoulder!” Jorvik bellowed at the conscripts who formed up behind the thin line of men-at-arms. “Don’t let them find gaps!”

More ships were landing now. Lionel counted fifteen, then eighteen vessels discharging warriors onto the beach. They were badly outnumbered. As the wall of men got close, a horn blew somewhere in their midst.

The horn’s bellow turned into a thunderous roar of voices as the Icelanders smashed into the line of defenders. Lionel was several lines back, unable to get to the front line with the men-at-arms, and could only watch as they hit, fighting for their lives.

“Stand fast!” he yelled, mostly at the peasants, who looked ready to break at any moment.

For a precious few moments, the thin line of professional soldiers held back the tide. But where Lionel’s professionals stood one deep, the northmen were rank after rank of experienced warriors, scared and marked from battles. A massive northman with an axe as tall as a man crashed through the center, splitting a shield and the man behind it. The line buckled.

“Shore it up!” Lionel called, but the peasants hesitated.

More Icelanders poured through the gap. An arrow took one of them in the throat, but there were always more. The line fractured in three places at once. Men-at-arms fought and died where they stood, but the peasants began to waver.

“Stand your ground!” Lionel drew his sword. “For the baron! For…”

The line collapsed. Peasants turned and ran, throwing down their weapons. Not all of them. Many held strong, stayed loyal, but half ran for their homes. The men-at-arms fought on in isolated knots, but they were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

“Jorvik!” he yelled, getting the man’s attention as he edged closer to the fighting as the peasants thinned out. “Rally to me at the top of the pass and reform!”

Lionel got close enough to get into the fight, hacking down an Icelander who came at him.

“Fall back in order! Don’t run!” Jorvik, who was bleeding and still standing, yelled.

The men began backing out, losing more of their number as they did. Lionel was in the front of the peasants, backing them up and keeping them together at the same time. An axe glanced off his shield, numbing his arm. He answered with a thrust that found a gap between leather and mail.

They reached the narrower ground at the top of the pass. Jorvik was with them now, only a handful of men-at-arms left standing. He had perhaps sixty men total left. It was a narrow point, so they could seal the gap, but their line was thin.

Thin and weak.

Jorvik positioned himself next to Lionel, but then his luck ran out. As Lionel turned to deal with a man to his right, a thrown axe took Jorvik in the chest, spinning him around. The veteran was dead before he hit the ground.

There wasn’t time to mourn the man. The men who remained formed a rough semicircle at the base of the cliffs. Lionel cut down two more Icelanders who charged ahead of their companions. His sword arm burned, but he forced himself to keep fighting.

A huge figure pushed through the Icelander ranks, probably a commander based on his ornate helm and fine mail. He carried a sword in one hand and a round shield in the other.

The commander came straight for him, batting aside Lionel’s first strike with contemptuous ease. He was experienced, and Lionel knew he was outmatched. He couldn’t give up, however.

Lionel parried, but the man’s undercut opened a gash in Lionel’s thigh. Lionel barely got his shield up to block the follow-up that would have taken his head. They exchanged a furious series of blows, until a crushing blow shattered Lionel’s shield.

Lionel backpedaled, each blocked blow nearly taking his sword out of his hand. The next blow cut his cheek. And then the man finally made his mistake. Either he slipped or mistepped, but he wobbled a step, his guard dropping. Lionel stabbed forward, the man’s face locking in surprise as the much smaller knight pierced through the leather armor and into his heart.

The enemy faltered for a moment as their leader fell, and then even backed up as the archers Lionel had ordered to retreat began to fire down into the slope, killing them by the handful.

“Back!” Lionel shouted to his remaining men. “Fall back to the keep!”

The retreat became a rout. Lionel watched as his remaining men broke apart, scattering across the rocky terrain. Some ran toward the keep, others fled into the countryside. The Icelanders pursued them, cutting down those who stumbled or proved too slow.

Lionel did his best to keep them together, to conduct a fighting retreat, but it was impossible to save everyone. Thankfully, without their leader, the Icelanders seemed content to let them go, focusing instead on the easier prey of isolated runners.

They climbed higher into the hills, the sharp rocks cutting into Lionel’s wounded leg. Blood soaked his trousers, but he refused to slow. Two of the men-at-arms helped support him as they made their way toward the keep.

“My lord,” one of the men said, pointing back toward the beach.

More ships had appeared through the fog. Twenty-five vessels now lined the shore, disgorging warriors onto the beach.

“They mean to stay,” Lionel said. “Gods help us all.”

The keep appeared as they crested the next rise. Smoke rose from several chimneys; the keep staff had obeyed his orders to prepare for a siege. The sight of the stone walls brought a measure of relief, even if Lionel knew they wouldn’t hold forever.

“Open the gates!” he called out as they approached.

The heavy wooden doors swung wide. Lionel’s group stumbled inside, joined by perhaps two score more who had made it ahead of them. He noticed the storerooms had been emptied, supplies moved inside the walls. At least something had gone right.

“Where are the others?” asked Marden, the keep’s steward, hurrying down from the walls.

“Dead or scattered,” Lionel said. “Seal the gates. Get the wounded to the great hall. Anyone who can still fight goes to the walls.”

“And the servants, my lord?”

“Put them to work preparing bandages and moving supplies. We’ll need everyone before this is done. And send a message to the Baron.”

“What should I tell him, my lord?”

“That we failed. The keep will soon be surrounded and that we will hold as long as we can.”

The man nodded and ran off to do his duty.

“My lord, you need the healers,” the man-at-arms who’d supported him through the retreat said.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” Lionel said with one last look at the walls.

At least he’d brought all the archers back.