In the Shadow of Lions - Chapter 10

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor

Captain Bramwell stood outside the heavy oaken door leading to King Serwyn’s personal study, taking a moment to prepare himself before raising a gloved fist to knock firmly three times. The sound echoed down the stone corridor, almost like a warning. One of the commanders he’d brought with him flinched slightly at the sound.

Instead of being bidden to enter, as he had the other times he’d been forced to interrupt the King, the door was flung open, surprising Bramwell. Standing in front of him was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a cruel smile. Bramwell didn’t hide the sneer on his face at the sight of the man. Colm Thranton, the jumped-up thug that the Duke used as his personal bagman and guard. Bramwell had never understood why the Duke would trust someone like Thranton, who’d just as easily stab you in your sleep as do your bidding. And yet, he did.

The last Bramwell heard, Thranton was in the Capital. He’d remained in Silverhall when the Duke had come to care for his injured brother, before his death. As far as Bramwell was concerned, Thranton should have stayed there. He hated Thranton, and knew the feeling was mutual. The two men stared each other down for a moment before Edmund called from within.

“Colm, let the Captain in,” Edmund said from within.

Thranton stepped aside with a mocking little bow. Bramwell signaled his commanders to wait in the hallway and entered, back straight and jaw tight, edging away from Thranton, who shut the door and moved to stand in the back corner of the room. Part of him wanted to turn, to keep the man in sight. He didn’t enjoy having the Duke’s pet attack dog behind him, out of sight.

Even without Thranton, it was an intimidating room to enter, designed to show the opulence and power of the King with tall arched windows along one wall overlooking the city below, framed by heavy velvet drapes in the white and gold of the House of Whitton. A few bookshelves laden with leather-bound tomes sat against one wall, dwarfed by a large collection of weapons lining the paneled walls. The weapons weren’t ornamental or ceremonial. These were worn pieces, used in battle. Weapons that had tasted blood. Not the King’s trophies, though. If Bramwell had to guess, they were relics from the King’s late father. Thoughts Bramwell would never let cross his face, knowing his fate if he did.

The young king himself sat at a massive oak desk inlaid with gold filigree, the richly carved legs depicting snarling lions. His normal petulant scowl had turned to one of annoyance as he shuffled through papers in front of him, absently slipping one off onto a separate pile as Bramwell approached the desk. Duke Edmund loomed over Serwyn’s shoulder, one of his finely manicured hands resting on the back of the king’s chair almost possessively as he reached over and straightened the document the king had just thrust aside.

He didn’t envy the Duke his task. Tutoring a king had to be perilous work, since all tutoring involved some kind of discipline, and who can discipline the most powerful person in the kingdom?

“What do you need, Captain?” the Duke asked, not even bothering to look up from the documents the king was reading or mask the annoyance in his voice.

Bramwell stopped a few feet in front of the king’s desk, posture straight and arms behind his back, and said, “I’m afraid there are more reports of unrest throughout the city, Your Grace. After the riot in the Royal Courtyard and the subsequent one in Peddler’s Square were put down, there has been a significant increase in... disloyal talk among the lower classes.”

The king dropped the papers and looked up, pale eyes fixing the captain in an intense, unnerving stare. The boy might have been young, but he had his father’s legendary intensity. Bramwell had only ever met King Gavric once, while traveling in the Duke’s service, but the brief meeting had left an impression. The former king had a way of holding anyone he spoke to spellbound, making them feel as if they were the center of his world. He’d found the experience both intimidating and exciting at the same time. Serwyn, on the other hand, made the focus of his attention feel like they were about to be executed at any moment for the crime of annoying His Grace.

Bramwell withered slightly under the King’s glare as he said, “They... I am sorry to have to repeat the words, my lord. They call for an end to the edict of travel and... some have suggested, perhaps a change in... leadership.”

Starhaven, at least these days, was a place where the messenger often paid for the message they carried, sometimes excruciatingly. Had it not been a dishonor to him or a disservice to his men, Bramwell would have liked to have anyone other than himself deliver this news. Telling the king that peasants were demanding his head, not to mention some of the things they called him, would have been almost certainly fatal. He’d originally tried to find Duke Edmund, so he could give His Excellency the news and let him break it to his uncle. Unfortunately, the Duke had, as he often was, been in with the king, and this was not something that could wait.

After the riot in the Royal courtyard, the Duke had ordered him to report on any other disturbances. The Duke might not have been as vicious as his nephew; he was more clever. His punishments, while not generally fatal, could be unpleasant enough all the same, leaving Captain Bramwell in an unfortunate position.

“And you let them do this?” Serwyn demanded. “Isn’t dealing with such matters precisely your role, as captain of the city guard?”

“It is, Your Grace. My men have instituted curfews in the most problematic areas and arrested dozens spreading seditious claims against Your Grace’s rule. But the dungeons are overflowing, and the tide of resentment has yet to turn. I have concerns …”

“Damn your concerns. You should have heads on pikes. Of course, you have seen no change. Letting treason go unchecked is asking for more treason.”

“I’m sure the Captain is doing his best to ensure the traitors are dealt with,” the Duke said, moving his hand from the chair to the king’s shoulder. “I have every confidence he will correct this issue and is only notifying us. We appreciate your report, Captain. Please use all means at your disposal to keep the peace, prevent any more uprisings, and remove the traitors from our streets.”

Captain Bramwell paused, considering his next words carefully. “I appreciate Your Excellency’s confidence in me, but I fear the situation may be escalating beyond containment through arrests alone. No matter how many we detain, the seditious attitudes only seem to spread. There are concerns …”

“You idiot,” the king said, interrupting his second attempt to get the warning across. “If arrests aren’t working, then start executing the traitors. That’s the only thing to do with their like. After a few heads end up on pikes, the rest will fall in line.”

Captain Bramwell clenched his jaw, holding back a response that would be sure to, at the least, get him removed from his post and more likely have his head put in the same place the king wanted to put the traitors’. Thankfully, he was saved from having to say anything by the Duke.

“What His Grace means, Captain, is that more forceful measures may be required. We know the people love their King, and these malcontents and traitors are surely a small, vocal minority.”

Bramwell bit his tongue again. Whoever told them the King was loved was either lying or a fool. The riots proved that. The people, at best, feared their king. Lately, that fear had begun to turn to resentment and anger, which is how they ended up in this very situation.

“They have friends, though, Your Excellency. Supporters. Executing people able to convince that many of their neighbors into treason would surely become martyrs if put on the block.”

The King opened his mouth, most likely for another tirade about executions and heads on pikes, but stopped as the Duke gave the shoulder a squeeze. The words cut off, the King instead chose to glower at Bramwell.

“A point,” Edmund said instead. “Perhaps, instead of making an example of the leaders, we could remove them from the board. Maybe we could arrest the ringleaders and ship them off to join the army in Lynese. I’m sure my brother could find use for them in the war effort, and communication is very limited between the soldiers there and the people here.”

That was the Duke, always thinking in layers. Where Bramwell would have arrested the men and left them in chains, and the King would have executed them, both solutions that were sure to cause a backlash, the Duke’s solution would remove the troublemakers in a way that caused the least, or at least less, resentment.

“A clever solution, Your Excellency,” Bramwell said after considering the idea for a moment. “Perhaps it would be best to make the notifications public. It’s possible if we pull men off the streets, or from the dungeons, and send them off to Lynese in the middle of the night, it would be no different than if we had them killed. Men disappearing suddenly have a tendency to cause … unnervings among the populace.”

In truth, he doubted simply disappearing some of the more vocal troublemakers would solve the problem. This rot had spread deep already, and there were more than enough to pick up what those men had started, and the policies they were protesting remained the law of the land. It also wasn’t a Captain’s duty to tell dukes and kings how to run their kingdom. All he could do was carry out the orders given to him and hope the results were successful since undoubtedly its failure would still fall on him, regardless of whose idea it was.

The King, clearly, also had his doubts.

“No!” he said, slamming his fists down on his desk. “They should be afraid of us, not us of them. They should be executed. Dead traitors cause no more trouble.”

“Your Grace,” the Duke said, almost gently. “I understand the desire for decisiveness, but we must consider the wider implications. These men have families who would take poorly to such harsh action. We risk turning disaffection into outright revolt.”

“They should accept their king’s judgment without question. Anything less is treason in itself.”

“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Edmund replied carefully. “But we must be pragmatic as well as decisive. Removed from the city yet kept alive, these men cease to be a threat here while their fate serves as a warning enough. Allow the Captain to arrange transport of the ringleaders to Lynese as conscripts. Untrained, as they are, they will end up dead at the Lynesians’ hands, solving our problem without the complexities of doing it ourselves.”

For a moment, the king looked up at his uncle, and Bramwell wasn’t sure which way the young monarch would land. Finally, though, he gave a small nod, picking up his discarded papers and going back to his previous task.

“By your leave,” the Captain said, assuming that was the decision being made. “I will begin organizing the transfer immediately. The next troop ship departs in a week, and I believe you would prefer if they were on it.”

Although the king didn’t look up from his work, the Duke said, “Good. If you have any trouble, let Colm know. He’s been assigned as the king’s personal guard during these trying times, but he’s available should you need additional assistance.”

Bramwell looked back at the man, whose lip turned up in his version of a smile. He’d swim across the Maw before he ever asked Colm for assistance, but it didn’t do to publicly insult the Duke’s right-hand man.

Instead, bowing, he said, “As you say, Your Grace. Your Excellency.”

The Duke had already turned his attention back to the King, effectively dismissing Bramwell. The Captain turned on his heel and made a retreat, ignoring the following eyes of Thornton as he left the room, closing the heavy door behind him.

“Assemble the watch commanders. I want them in the barracks in twenty minutes,” he said to his lieutenants as they fell in step with him.

“Yes, sir, right away!” the man said, the pair veering off down a side passage.

Bramwell gave a glance back at the closed oak door, frowning. This was going to end badly. He could feel it.

***

Sidorian Army Camp, Chansol River, Lynese

William picked his way through the rows of ordered campaign tents, dodging soldiers and laborers as he made his way toward the center of the camp where his and the other commanders’ tents were located.

He wasn’t heading to his own tent, which he wasn’t sure should be with the leaders of the army anyway. Instead, he was heading to one closer to the central command tent. Not the largest, which would have been Baron Pembroke’s, or the flashiest, which would have been Sir Alister’s tent. Although larger than the common soldier’s tent, it wasn’t ostentatiously so. If it weren’t for the golden lion on white above blue lines of water on the banner outside, he might not have even known it was his uncle Aldric’s tent the first time he came here.

No guards were stationed outside, although there were enough armed men around it would be foolish to try to attack their leader, so one wasn’t needed, either.

Stopping by the entrance flap, William called out, “Uncle, it’s William.”

At the muffled invitation from within, William swept aside the heavy canvas and ducked inside. He found Aldric seated on a folding camp stool at a small portable desk of rough-hewn oak planks balanced precariously across two supply crates. Not exactly the ornate writing desk Baron Pembroke had carted around with him on the campaign.

He was holding a small curled piece of paper, the tell-tale sign of a wyvern’s message, which he rolled up and slid into a battered leather satchel hanging from the corner of the desk as William entered.

“Have a seat,” Aldric said, pointing to another camp stool just next to the makeshift desk. “Is everything alright? You look troubled.”

“I’m not sure,” William said after a long pause.

“Eskild mentioned you were troubled after your fight on the line, and I know you’ve been spending a lot of time in the healers’ tents.”

It made sense that Eskild would talk to his uncle. The Sergeant seemed like a good man, but he was also his uncle’s man. William trusted his uncle implicitly, but it was something to keep in mind in the future.

“My first command...it was a disaster. If Sir Drummond hadn’t been able to push through, we’d have been slaughtered. As it is, only two-thirds of my men were slaughtered. I know Eskild said it was a victory, but … with victories like that, the Lynesians don’t need to win to chase us home.”

“You feel responsible for the lives lost under your command.” It was not a question.

William nodded miserably. “I just came from seeing Sir Drummond. The healers say his recovery is going well, thank the Ancients, but he took that wound saving me. How can I call myself a leader when my men pay the price for my mistakes?”

“The burden of command is a heavy one,” Aldric replied. “Every decision carries risk, and even with the best intentions, lives will be lost. What matters is how you bear that burden and whether you have the courage to keep leading despite the cost.”

That wasn’t far off from what Eskild had said, and William didn’t have a response to it, other than nodding slightly. It made sense, but it also felt like a platitude.

Aldric leaned forward and, almost conspiratorially, said, “I felt much the same after my first command. Worse, even.”

William looked up at his uncle, who fell silent; a shadow seemed to pass over his face at that moment. William waited, almost holding his breath, watching his uncle as emotions played across the older man’s face.

Finally, he looked up into William’s eyes and said, “It was many years ago, during the Winterfang Rebellion. My father was growing old by then, and Gavric had taken over leading most military campaigns. We were tasked with putting down the rebellion. Normally just a training ground for green recruits, a group of disgruntled veterans had seized the old fort there and proclaimed themselves ‘The Freed People of Winterfang Isle.’ Foolishness, but no less dangerous for it. Gavric was certain that agents from Alchmara had... never mind. It’s not important to the story. What matters is these men had a few thousand villagers and rejects from the Ice Lands at their command, and had threatened to throw any king’s man they saw back into the sea.”

When he paused, gathering his thoughts, William didn’t dare interrupt the story. Gavric would tell William stories about past military adventures, but Aldric never talked about his past. William had actually heard about this campaign from Gavric. There had been a sudden sneak attack on their rear that had almost cost him his position. He managed to defeat the rebels and finally take the fort in a climactic battle that required them to breach the front gate with battering rams. Gavric had been one of the first through, cutting men down with his massive sword. William had thought about that battle often in his youth, but he hadn’t realized Aldric was there as well.

“They didn’t just hole up in their fort, though,” Aldric continued the story. “They had too many bandits in their number for that. No. The island itself is basically one big mountain, and the fort is right at the center of it. They had men all in the few main passes to the fort, ambushing and setting traps. It would have been a brutal fight to get through to their base, but your uncle Gavric was clever. He had a plan to take a small command, leaving most of the army behind, and force a march through the mountains, using smugglers’ paths he’d learned of from deserters.”

Aldric’s eyes had a faraway look now as he recalled the events. “A blizzard was blowing in off the Frozen Sea, and our scouts reported the enemy still far forward, in the passes, trying to harass our main army. Gavric thought if we could take their fort and leave them out in the open during the storm, it would weaken them considerably. The problem was, although our main force was well supplied and dug in, the men Gavric would need to take through the pass wouldn’t be. Even after he first proposed the plan to his commanders, he’d been unsure if it was a wise move. We would suddenly have a smaller force, exposed, and caught between the rebels left in the fort and their army in the passes. He thought about it all through the night, unsure if he should try for the quick victory, or continue to grind the enemy down, day by day, losing valuable men along the way.”

Aldric fell silent, looking at his rough hands, lost in thought. For a long time, William just sat there, waiting, as his uncle relived whatever that night had been, and the shame he clearly still carried from it.

When he could take the silence no longer, William asked, “What happened?”

His uncle didn’t answer right away, and when he did, he didn’t look at William. Instead, he maintained that faraway expression as he looked past the tent and the army camp around them and into the past.

“It was an unmitigated disaster. We had the rebels contained, their fort under siege. My brother was right, if we pressed hard with a smaller force along the mountain paths, we could have taken them unawares, and we did. But he was still worried. We had placed ourselves between the forces in the mountains and their fort, and given up both our prepared positions and numerical superiority to do it. He wanted to break our small force again, split it in half. One part would continue to besiege the fort, which only had the smallest token force, and the other would block the pass back into the small valley where they’d built their fort.”

“That was the genius of the rebels’ position and why we hadn’t been able to assault,” he said. “While the pass on the other side, where we had been attacking, was full of cutbacks and carve-outs where ambushing forces could hide, on this side, it was solid, unpassable mountains except for this pass, and the smaller trails the deserters had told us about. I guess they thought no one would know about the small trails on the far side of the range, so they left those unguarded. The main pass, it was small, but it narrowed even smaller, just as it crossed into the valley. Any force that tried to come down it could get maybe twenty men across before the terrain became unworkable for a good hundred-yard stretch. Gavric figured we could do to them what they had been doing to us. Bottle that pass up, clear the fort, and send a wyvern to the main body. With the enemy trapped in the mountains between us and no refuge, we could let them starve or dig them out. Either way, we’d end the rebellion and he’d be a hero.”

“I was young and proud, desperate to prove myself. I told him to send me. When our scouts reported the passes seemingly clear and we didn’t think they’d be coming back, I told him I could lead the men and hold it while he took the fort,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “By the ancients, he must have loved me. It’s the only reason I can think of that he’d do it. He must have seen the look on my face, how much I wanted it, and decided it was worth the risk.”

“He sent you,” William asked when Aldric fell silent again.

“Yes,” he said, finally looking at William again. “He gave me fifty footmen and twenty knights. Told us to dig in, hold the pass. I was to send a runner if they showed back up and hold fast behind whatever defensive position I could dig in.”

“Did they come for you?” William gently prodded again, after the silence had stretched on.

“Yes. We marched to the entrance of the pass. It was just as Gavric predicted - the perfect spot to block the only way through the mountains back to the rebel fort. I set my men to digging trenches and hauling stones to make our position harder to assail. They didn’t have much in the way of horses, so a concentrated charge wasn’t a worry. We sat there all through the night, listening to the sounds of the mountains. I swear, I thought every tumbling rock and gust of wind was the enemy plunging in on us out of the darkness.”

His voice had grown raspy. Pausing, he leaned back and reached over, taking his cup and drinking deeply.

“They came the next morning,” he said, setting the cup back down. “Our lookouts spotted movement in the pass. The bulk of the rebel force was returning, just as anticipated. And there we sat, bottling up the only route through to safety. We had them. I knew Gavric would have the fort that day; we just had to hold them long enough. But I had a plan. I assembled my men, telling them that today was the day we would end the Winterfang Rebellion and be heroes.”

He gave William a sad half-smile. “What a fool I was. The rebels charged down through the winding pass, but our barricades held them up as intended. They were packed in, unable to effectively maneuver or bring their numbers to bear. It wasn’t a slaughter, but we hurt them. Which is why, when they started to fall back, I was so certain they were routing. All we had to do was charge after them, scoop up the remaining enemy. Gavric would arrive and see I’d defeated them. Which is why I ordered a charge, to smash them while they routed. I had good men. They all followed me, screaming as they charged. All but one knight. He mounted and rode away, bent for leather. I cursed him for a coward. He was the smart one though.”

“It was a catastrophic mistake,” he said, shaking his head. “We slammed into them alright, pushing them straight out of the narrows. Right where they were waiting. That had been only a diversionary force, sent to take a beating and retreat. As soon as we were through the narrows, they came pouring down from the hills, sweeping in behind us, completely boxing us in. In what seemed like seconds, the tide had turned completely. The retreating rebels turned and joined in the fight. We were completely enveloped. I watched my men being cut down all around me as I struggled to rally a defense.”

“But Gavric came for you, right?” William asked, not waiting for his uncle to continue.

“Yes. The man I cursed hadn’t been running in fear. He’d seen the disaster I was riding into and went for help, knowing what was about to happen. He rode all the way to Gavric, told him I was in grave peril. Gavric had to abandon the siege and bring all his men to our rescue. He arrived right as an axe caught me from behind, slamming through pauldron and muscle. As I went down, I saw his men riding into the enemy, a desperate charge to try and rescue the few of us who remained.”

“He saved you?” William asked.

“He did, although I didn’t know about it at the time. The Disciples had to put me to sleep while they tried to get blood in me and mend my shoulder. I woke two days later in the healers’ tent, bandaged and splinted. Gavric sat at my bedside looking more haggard than I’d ever seen him. The enemy had rallied from the fort behind him, leaving him no option but to fight through to our main encampment, harassed the entire way. We lost two thirds of the men we’d taken into that valley, with nothing to show for it.”

“But you defeated them in the end?” William asked tentatively.

Winterfang Isle was still part of the Duchy of Icelands, William knew that much.

“Yes. Gavric sent a wyvern to father, telling him of the failure. We were forced to ask Lord Windermere for support. He lived off that glory for a long time, using it to press father, constantly reminding him why he was needed. Why he could disobey the will of the king. And the worst part of all of it... Gavric took the blame for everything. He ordered the men with me that day, the few still living, to never speak of what I did. He told father his plan failed. It took a long time for Gavric to regain father’s confidence after that.”

William sat quietly as his uncle finished the story, thinking. While it was exciting, hearing about his uncles at war, it brought his own fights to him. Was Aldric warning him against being brash? Acting before he thought?

“Did it affect you, after?” William finally asked. “Knowing you’d gotten so many men killed?”

“Yes,” he said, gazing down at the floor of the tent. “And no. In that particular case, yes, it affected me deeply. I acted rashly because I wanted glory, and good men paid the price. I carry that always.”

“That’s my fear. That I’ll always remember convincing you to send men out there, putting men in danger. I don’t know if I can recover from my mistake the way you recovered from yours.”

“You can. All men make mistakes, and you have the heart of Whitton. But you’ve misunderstood me. What do you think my mistake was?”

William didn’t answer, uncomfortable at pointing out his uncle’s flaws, but the man’s eyes bore into him, demanding it.

“Convincing Gavric to split his forces and then leading that charge.”

“Only one of those was my mistake. When I requested Gavric to send me to the narrows, even when I requested he send me, that was all it was. A request. I didn’t make him make the decision. Had I held my position, even if my command had fallen, that would have been on Gavric. My mistake was not following my orders, of taking my men into danger.”

“But, if you’re the one to ask...”

“Do you think Gavric was a fool when he allowed me to go? Do you consider me a fool for allowing you to go? There’s risk in commanding men. There always will be. The job of a commander is weighing that risk and making the best decision you can. Even when you make the right decision, the best decision, you will still have men die. That’s the nature of war.”

“In my case, Gavric knew there was a good chance they’d send for reinforcements. They probably had already, in fact, considering how quickly the enemy got back to us and set up that trap. And I weighed my decision to allow you to go. I’d like to say your words about our duty to the ancients played a part, but it was more practical considerations. Something felt off about the wagon train coming through the mountains, about the Disciples having Lynesian escorts. Pembroke can often be too dismissive of things outside his experience. We’d been in an argument for several days already, each having different opinions of how to cross the river.”

“He’s your vassal,” William said, shocked.

“He is, and he’s a good one. Which is why I not only want him to speak his mind, I demand it. I find different points of view give me more options, make me a better leader. Yes, at times it’s tiresome, but it’s worth it in the long run. Coming down on him makes it harder to get that kind of pushback when I need it, so your offering was an excellent excuse to do what I wanted without the repercussions. I knew Sir Drummond was there, and he’s a good man, and I sent Eskild. We also instructed Sir Alistair to get a command ready, just in case. If we didn’t need them, we’d send them on patrol, but as it turned out, we did. It’s how Pembroke got to you so fast.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“No, because you didn’t need to. You did exactly what you were commanded to do, and when the moment came and you did face a choice, you made the right decisions. You’ve done significantly better on your first command than I did on mine.”

William stood, his mind awash with thoughts over everything Aldric had told him, “Thank you, Uncle. This talk... it has helped.”

“Good,” Aldric said. “And don’t think you won’t ever make mistakes. You will. All commanders do. When it happens, learn from it, become better, and move on. While I appreciate what a good heart you have, this kind of self-pitying navel-gazing does you and the men who serve you no good. They need a decisive commander. One who learns from his mistakes but doesn’t dwell on them. When the time comes, remember that.”

“I’ll try,” William said.