An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 11

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor

Serwyn stood on Market Road, his eyes fixed on the execution platform sitting in the center of the wide road, which from the bustling Merchants’ tier to the Nobles’ tier, now lined with grim-faced guards holding back the swelling crowd.

On the platform, Baron Thurston waited, guards on either side of him and his hands shackled, his noble finery stripped away. The man’s face was gaunt from his time in the dungeons, but he was still the pompous and defiant. Serwyn’s lip curled in disgust. He wouldn’t be anything in a few minutes.

 In front of him, the executioner waited, flanked by more guards. A sea of faces stretched down the road toward the Peasants’ quarter and to either side into the merchants tier, as far as the eye could see. He could feel their bloodlust, their eagerness for death. This was how it should be - the rabble clamoring for justice, desperate to see the king’s will done.

With everything in place, Serwyn raised his hands, causing the noise of the crowds to drop, his people waiting to hear from him. Waiting for the command to remove Thurston’s head. Serwyn’s lips curled. This far from the Lindenwood, it was unlikely any of the peasants knew who Thurston was, aside from the gossip that made the rounds during his trial. They were here for the spectacle.

He had tried to explain to Edmund that this was one of the benefits of this execution. Aside from ridding them of a nuisance, it fed the crowd. An entertained mob was a controlled mob.

“People of Starhaven,” Serwyn began, as loud as he could, trying to copy his father’s commanding presence when he gave speeches. “You stand witness today to the price of treason against the crown. Ivorn Thurston, once a baron, given rights and titles and the command of the Lindenwood, to rule in the name of the crown, betrayed not only his king but the very legacy of the Ancients we are sworn to uphold.”

He paused for dramatic effect, the way his father and uncle Edmund would do.

“This man before you led an uprising against the rightful rule of your king. He sowed discord among the nobles, undermined the laws of our land, and sought to tear apart the very fabric of our kingdom. Such actions cannot and will not be tolerated. The punishment for treason is death, as it has always been.”

Serwyn pointed to Thurston, down on the platform. The guards forced the baron to his knees, pushing him forward so taht the fell on the block. With his hands shackled before him, there was nothing to brace himself with, no way to push himself off the block.

“Let this serve as a lesson to any who would challenge the authority granted to me by the Ancients themselves. I am your king, chosen to lead and protect this realm. Those who stand against me stand against Sidor itself, and they will fall. The sentence will now be carried out. May the Ancients have mercy on his soul, for I shall have none. Executioner...”

Thurston, his face smashed against the block, shouted, “Don’t be fooled by the lies! It was this king who had your children crying from hunger because of his grain tax! It was this king who had your neighbors dragged from their homes for daring to speak against him?”

Serwyn fumed.

“Guards...”

Thurston wasn’t finished, however. “Where are your families now? How do they rot in cells or lie in unmarked graves? The Ancients did not choose this cruel boy. They would weep to see what he’s done in their name. He...”

“Enough!” Serwyn roared, his face flushed with rage. “Executioner, do your duty! Now!”

The executioner stepped back, lifting the ax far above his head, both hands to the haft. The weapon arced down, smashing into the block with a sickening thud, cutting off his words and sending his head rolling over the side, dropping into the basket placed for its collection. His body, no longer balanced, flopped forward and over.

The crowd roared, but not in excitement and bloodlust. The words which had held them enthralled finally sank in, their amusement turning to fury. Cries, accusations, and insults were hurled in his direction.

As if to add injury, of sorts, to the insults, a boy, no more than ten, broke free of the crowd. He was so small that the guards at first ignored him, until the boy whipped his arm, a jagged stone clutched in his grimy fist.

The projectile never reached its mark. A guard surged forward with surprising speed, his mailed fist caught the boy’s wrist mid-throw, twisting it brutally. The stone clattered to the cobblestones as the child cried out in pain and fear.

“You little shit,” the guard snarled, bringing his club down hard across the boy’s shoulders.

The crack of wood on flesh was lost in the rising roar of the mob, but Serwyn saw the child crumple like a puppet with cut strings. The guard dragged the limp form away, leaving a smear of blood on the stones.

Instead of taking care of the problem, the guard’s defense of his king made things worse. People were shouting, pointing at the boy’s body. Word traveled quickly, the crowd’s anger, already palpable, erupted into something primal and terrifying.

“Go. Stop them. Don’t let them…” Serwyn began to yell at the guards, pointing at the surging crowd, when a hand closed around his arm.

“Your Grace,” Edmund said, leaning in close, to be heard over the shouting. “We should return to the palace. Now.”

Serwyn opened his mouth to protest, but Edmund’s grip tightened ever so slightly. The crowd, held back only by the line of increasingly nervous-looking guards, was murderous, and his bravado crumbled.

“Y-yes,” Serwyn stammered, allowing Edmund to lead him away.

“Clear the way. Use whatever force is necessary,” his uncle said to the guard commander, who saluted, barking orders to his men.

The guards waded into the crowds, clearing a bloody path.

***

Brigwyn, Stormhaven, Sidor

Garris paused for a moment, steeling himself for what he was about to do. He could hear the huge crowds outside of the keep, their individual conversations melding together into a wave of noise.

The center of Brigwyn, a large open square used for public events, was packed, people spilling into the side streets in all directions. It wasn’t unusual for Brigwyn to be full this time of year. Reliquary was one of the biggest holidays across the kingdoms of the Shattered Lands, with the exception of Thay, although those festivities were usually directed at the hall of the ancients across the square and not his keep.

But word had gotten out. Thurston’s execution was the biggest news in Sidor since the war with Lynese began. The peasants’ revolt had been noteworthy, but peasants revolted from time to time. Usually not quite as successfully, but it was only an escalation, not something new.

It had been over a decade since the last time a noble was executed. But it was more than that. Thurston had been publicly cited as having been behind the peasants’ revolt. To have a noble fund an uprising of peasants was unheard of.

With the removal of Ivorn’s head, Edmund had thrown down the gauntlet, all but declaring war on barons who did not fall in line. And everyone knew that Garris was at the top of the list of barons who had not fallen in line. Gossip was running rampant across the kingdom, but nowhere as much as inside the borders of his own barony.

When word went out that there would be an announcement, people began flocking to the city square, well before that announcement was set to take place, to ensure they were given seats. It grew by the hour, until it seemed as if his entire holdings had come into the capital to hear what he had to say.

And they would.

Garris took one last deep breath, looked to the allies who’d joined him for this moment, in a show of solidarity, and stepped out onto the balcony.

It was still cold, with chill winds coming off the Frozen Sea and down the straits, but Garris refrained from bundling up. His people needed to see him. He could stand some chill.

The guards had pushed the crowds back slightly to make room for nobles from Stormhaven and across Iron Keep, and even representatives of the Duke himself.

Filling out behind him were the barons of the Darien Coast, Delaney Heights, Eastlake, Yarwell, and Wooten, sending a ripple of excitement through the crowd. It was rare to see so many barons gathered together outside of the capital, and with the rumors swirling around, their appearance essentially made the announcement before Garris could.

Garris raised his hand, and a hush fell over the crowd.

“People of Stormhaven, lords and ladies of Iron Keep, I stand before you today with a heavy heart and burdened by a great purpose. You have all heard the news from Starhaven - the unjust execution of Baron Ivorn Thurston, a man whose only crime was to speak truth to power.”

A murmur passed through the crowd, although if it was in anger or support, it was hard for Garris to tell.

“This act is but the latest in a long line of offenses perpetrated by the boy who sits upon the throne. I say boy, for Serwyn Whitton has proven himself no true king. He is a tyrant, unfit to rule, who has abandoned every principle of just governance that his father, the good King Gavric, held dear.”

He paused again, for dramatic effect.

“Serwyn Whitton cares nothing for the welfare of his people, be they noble or common. He has raised taxes to crushing levels, treating the very lifeblood of this kingdom as his personal coffers. He passed laws unheard of in history, telling the people where they could travel; who they could sell to. He has allowed his lackeys to abuse and terrorize innocent subjects, trampling the rights that have been enshrined in our laws for generations. Does this sound like a king who holds the trust of his people? Does this sound like a ruler fit to sit upon the throne of Sidor?”

The people were already getting wrapped up in the speech, and a call for them to participate, to vent their anger, was met with a chorus of no’s.

“I hold no hate for the boy. If he was king, I would even follow him as I have followed Whittons for all my life. But I cannot, because I know the truth. He was too young, too unprepared for the duty that fell so suddenly to him with his father’s passing, and he failed in taking his father’s place. Instead, he has become a puppet, controlled by corrupt advisors who seek only to enrich themselves at our expense. And I do not bow to the men behind him, the men who truly sit on his throne. I say to you now, that I will not follow the rule of men unanointed by the ancients. Men who have chased power and position until the opportunity came for them to gain control over a weak child unprepared for rule. I hold to the true ideals of our great kingdom, to the legacy that stretched back a millennium to a time when magic lived and the world was whole. Kings are appointed not by men, but by our ancestors, through the last remnants of their power. The men who control the boy, they were not appointed. They were not selected. They were not chosen. And I will not stand for it.”

Mention of the taxes, the laws against peasants that had been so widely hated that it caused common farmers and blacksmiths to march to Starhaven and put it under siege, had been enough to work up the crowd. But giving them a reason why obedience to the crown was not only just, but the true and only path to following the will of the ancients was like releasing steam from a kettle.

The people screamed and cheered, cursed and jeered.

“My friends, my countrymen, the time has come for all true Sidorians to rise up against this unjust and false king. I call upon every man who values honor, justice, and the welfare of our people to rally to your lord. I call on you to join me as we retake our kingdom and right these wrongs. For the ancients! For Sidor!”

The roar from the crowd was deafening. Men thrust their fists into the air, chanting Garris’s name. Women wept and embraced their neighbors.

Garris held up both hands, letting his people see him. Cheer him. And then retreated back into his keep, waving the other barons with him, The din of the gathered masses faded as they entered a private chamber and shut the heavy door behind them.

“My lords,” Garris said, stopping and facing the gathered men. “I thank you for standing with me today. The risk you have taken is not lost on me.”

Brian Thornbrook, the gruff Baron of Darien Coast, snorted. “Risk? Edmund Whitton declared war on us all when he had Thurston’s head lopped off. It was either take a stand or bend our necks like that poor bastard did.”

The other men made sounds of agreement.

“It is past time someone put the pup and his master in their place,” Baron Rokeby of Wooton said.

“True enough,” Garris conceded, “but your support is appreciated nonetheless. However, now we must plan on how we put our words into action. What we have now will not be enough to weather the storm that is coming.”

“I understood most of the River Mark stood with us,” Victor Fitzroy, the Baron of Eastlake said.

Garris shook his head. “Half the River Mark barons are with the army in Lynese. The rest are waiting to see which way Aldric Whitton jumps. As for Shadowhold, they are still licking their wounds from maw season. They have little to spare. I am afraid we stand alone. The Icelands, both their duke and the majority of the barons, have been in Edmund’s pocket for some time. The rest of the barons will not take the chance of standing up.”

“Thurston was not from the Icelands. He was a baron of Kingsmark,” Rokeby said.

“True. And Iron Keep is the smallest of the Duchies, and not all of our neighbors stand with us, but Edmund made mistakes with his laws. There are more barons in the Kingsmark than all the other duchies, and they were the most affected by his laws. Thurston is not the only baron with concerns about the boy and his minders.”

“What about Duke Windermere? Have you spoken to him? If he was with us, the other dukes here would have to stand with us. We should at least have the support of our own Duke.”

“I have. He is... hesitant. The last thing he wants is another internal conflict on this scale. He would rather wait and see what happens.”

“So what is our next move?” Terence Bellamy, the Baron of Yarwell, asked.

“I am sending out as many ravens as I can. We need more nobles willing to sign our decree before I send demands to Starhaven. I will send one to the duke again, along with all of the other barons here, to Duke Aldric and Duke Blackwood, and to any barons who showed sympathy or even disquiet during the peasants’ revolt. We do not have a lot of time, however. Word of what we have done here today will reach Edmund soon enough. We cannot wait for their answers. Start calling your banners. Prepare your men. We must be ready for what is coming.”

The Barons looked to each other. Grim and worried. But they had already played their hand. They had stood publicly with him when he had declared himself against the king. They could not take that back now.

“May the Ancients watch over us,” Garris said.

***

Sidor Siege Works, Outside Valemonde, Lynese

The rain had slowed and the ground had slowly started to solidify. That much was at least useful and the men’s spirits were starting to lift as they did not have to stand in damp trenches or move wet mud into earthen ramparts or build the wooden fortifications. Sir Alistair had returned from Werna with supplies, allowing for full bellies and even warm food to be brought to the men from cooking tents further in the rear.

Laughter and light conversation came from the men as he passed, and it did William’s heart good. The last several months had been hard going, living rough and fighting near constantly. They were still at war, still fighting, but the Lynesians had only tried to sally once since the siege had started a month before, and had been quite ever since. They tried to shoot his people while the works were being built, but now that most were up, even that had stopped.

No fighting, warm food, no mud. For his men it was almost a holiday. It is why he took these small walks along the line each night. It helped him feel more in touch with them. The longer he commanded the armor, the more of an affinity he had for them. When the war was over, he had been thinking of what he might do to keep working with the men. Commanding them.

He had decided that he would prefer this over serving in the capital, and he assumed his father would prefer it. Prefer him out of the way.

A commotion ahead drew his attention, causing William to increase his pace. Behind one of the built-up earthworks, a group of soldiers were surrounding someone, pushing them, their voices carrying.

“What is this?” William asked, his voice firm but not accusatory.

The soldiers stepped back, revealing an old man in fine but dirty clothes, looking out of place among the soldiers.

“This one snuck across from the city,” one of the soldiers said. “We were about to deal with him.”

This man was no combatant, that much was clear. He looked terrified.

“Why are you here, old man? Do not you know it is dangerous to cross siege lines?”

The soldiers reluctantly let go of the old man, who stumbled slightly before regaining his balance. “I have a message for William Whitton. I was told to bring it only to him.”

William raised an eyebrow. Whatever he had expected from the old man, that had not been it.

After a moment’s consideration, he said, “Very well. Bring him to my command tent. And someone fetch Baron Pembroke.”

William turned and headed back to the body of their camp. It was unexpected, to be sure. If it was some kind of message from Emperor Baldric, it would have been like the exchange of the Princess. Flags of truce and puffed-up men, all wanting to seem strong and sure of themselves.

The thought of the exchange brought the princess back to his thoughts. Although she had only been in his custody for a few months, he found he missed their talks. She had been … refreshing. Her viewpoint on politics and international relations certainly was different than others, but she had also been interesting in her own right. Clever and witty.

As much as he liked the men, and wanted to continue commanding them in the future, there were times when it was nice to have a break from overly serious men like Pembroke.

He shook himself out of his thoughts as he got to the tent, ushering the messenger inside.

“I should be safe enough with an old man,” he said, dismissing the guards. “You have your audience. What is your message?”

“I was sent by Princess Isolde, Your Highness.”

Again the old man surprised him.

The look on his face must have betrayed him because the old man said, “I am one of her tutors and have been with her since she was young.”

Before William could reply, Pembroke pushed through the tent.

“It seems the princess has sent us a message.”

“I see,” Pembroke said, an unusual expression on his face. “And what, exactly, does she want?”

“She begs you to end this war, Your Highness. Before more people have to die.”

“We have been through this in person,” William said, almost disappointed that this was the message she had sent. “We cannot just walk away, not matter how I feel about the cost of it. Her father brought this war, and it is up to him to end it.”

“That was actually what she wanted to send me to talk to you about. She understands you are not able to end the war on your own, but she believes her father might be willing to negotiate now, and she wants to be a go-between, to convince him of your terms.”

“Her father will never give in to terms. He would rather burn his country down than admit he is wrong.”

“Normally, Your Highness, you would be right but …” the old man said, and then paused, like he was trying to find a way to not say the next part of the message.

“But?” William prompted.

With a grimace, he said, “She wanted me to convey that her father is … worried about his chances of winning. She wanted me to tell you that the city was running low on supplies before you began your siege. Now … rationing has begun.”

William was shocked by the admission. The man was all but telling him that if they just kept the siege going, the city would be forced to capitulate. As military intelligence goes, this was notable.

“She knew you would be surprised that she would tell you this. That you could ignore her request and push the siege until the city falls and her father is captured. But, she said to tell you that she believes in you. That you are not a bad man. And that she believes you will choose to do the right thing.”

William did not speak for a moment. She was right he could ignore her request and just wait. He probably should. And yet …

“I think … maybe it is worth giving her a chance. We have our own problems back home that…”

“Your Highness,” Pembroke interrupted, his tone a clear warning.

“I know,” William said.

They might give up intelligence, but it would be a mistake to match it because he liked her. He did not know what the Lynesians knew about the troubles in Sidor, but if they knew he had a time limit, and could be recalled home and give up the war, it could push them to hold on longer. Accept more suffering than necessary.

“Let us step outside for a moment. Guards!” William said to Pembroke before calling the guards, who entered a moment later. “Wait here with our guest.”

William stepped out of the tent, Pembroke following behind him, taking a few steps further away from the guards before stopping to face the baron.

“Your Highness, I think it’s best to be cautious. This could be a ploy…”

“To what end? More importantly, can we afford to take this city? Even if we take Valemonde, even if we capture the emperor himself, it doesn’t win us the entire continent. You’ve seen the same reports of Lynesian forces gathering in the southwest, in Gharnatá. Pacifying all of Lynese will take years. Years we don’t have.”

“That might be true, but this is a risk.”

“Everything’s a risk. We could take the emperor and his people could choose to fight on. Besides, she isn’t one to willingly participate in that kind of subterfuge, and if her father were using her, he certainly wouldn’t let her tell us how vulnerable the city is. And we still don’t have time. You’ve read the same messages as I have from him. Barons murdered, others declaring independence from the crown. If Uncle Aldric could give us some direction, then maybe it would be different, but all we get is ‘stay strong’ and ‘win the war.’ I’ll follow his orders, but I’ll do it the best way I know how. And if that means we end this war now and take our army home where we can do some real good, then that’s what I’ll do. Besides, my father sends weekly letters demanding we end this and sue for peace. All around, this is the right thing to do.”

“If you are going to do this, then perhaps we should at least discuss what terms we’re willing to accept.”

“I know what I’m willing to accept,” William said, turning and walking back into the tent, leaving Pembroke to follow him, looking disgruntled.

“Return to your princess and tell her I’m willing to consider peace terms, but there will be conditions,” William said, after sending the guards. “First, her father must agree to cease all interference in Sidorian politics. No more escalating tensions, no more buying raids from Alchmara. We’ve had enough of his meddling. Second, we’ll need reparations for our injured and dead. The cost of this war has been steep, and Sidor deserves compensation.”

“I think those are reasonable terms. I’m sure my…”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not finished. Those were the easy terms. Even if he agrees to them, I know his type. The mawspawn whispering in his ear will eventually drive him back to his old ways. We’re willing to give most of the city back to Lynese, we have fought long and hard, and spilled Sidorian blood for it, and we will retain control of Rendallia province.”

That caught the old man by surprise. “You can’t…”

“I can,” William said, interrupting him. “This is non-negotiable. Rendallia is the ancestral home of the Whittons, our rightful legacy. We have a legitimate claim to it and it will give Baudric pause before he starts thinking about breaking the peace. In return, if her father agrees to these terms, I’ll lift the siege, end the war, and return to Rendallia and Sidor. No more bloodshed, no more suffering for either side.”

“I... I understand, Your Highness. I’ll convey your message to the princess faithfully.”

“Good,” William said. “Baron, could you take this man back to the line and send him across.”

Pembroke seemed like he was going to argue, but he simply nodded and took the old man’s arm, taking him out of the tent.

William didn’t know if this would work. Isolde had told him about her father, about her difficulty with him. But if it didn’t work, the siege would remain and he would take him, and figure it out from there.

If it did work, he’d be back home.