·         Stephen Wormwood here. Thank you for clicking. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can (https://donate.nifty.org/), it's more than merited.

 

·        You can find a map of the fictionalized setting of this novel here: https://imgur.com/JtpD8WU (this is my first time using Inkarnate so it might be a little rough!)

 

·        If you end up enjoying this, please read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).

 

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Chapter Fifteen: The March of the Wretched, Part 4

 

**********

 

Three Letters – The Die is Cast – "What do you want?" – Edward Will Die – Tenth of his Name – The Whelping Bitch – A Better Realm – Bitches beget Bastards – "Who Gave the Order?"

 

**********

 

The Undergaol, City of Greyford, Kingdom of Morland

53^rd of Autumn, 801

 

It was a rancid pit. There was little better to say about it. The walls were like slagheaps – crooked and misshapen and befouled with moss. Damp's stench infested the nostrils at every turn as mice scurried through the stray straw and rotting rushes. Dribbles of rainwater poured through the cracked ceiling and brought the chill of the prior night's storms with it. Even for the pit that it was, even considering its purpose, the Undergaol was a unique grotesquery. A cold grotesquery. But it wasn't the cold that had Edward Bardshaw shivering upside the wall.

 

It was the screams.

 

They were staccato and infrequent, sudden bursts of agony bouncing off the walls into the dripping darkness. And by the saints they were ghastly. He could almost hear the cords tear within the captive's throat as he screamed himself hoarse, screamed himself into coughing fits.

 

"STOP! STOP! OH, PLEASE! PLEASE! STOP! AAAAAGGH!"

 

The torch rattled in Edward's gloved hand.

 

Inside that dank cell a fleshy slap sounded out and those marrow-freezing screams ebbed into frantic weeping. An accented voice shouted out orders. More weeping. More sobs. But no more screams. And then, within the hour, a fist banged the banded iron door from within. The turnkey yawned, utterly unperturbed, and unlocked it, a burning torch flickering in his free hand.

 

Charl Brance adjusted his bloody gloves as he emerged from the cell, smirking. "There you are, Master Bardshaw. He talked."

 

He was a sneering prig was Brance. A man of Morish and Gasqueri bloods, he served as Owayne mac Garrach's deputy in the White Ravens mercenary band. Like the Maul he was a veteran of the internecine Gasqueri Wars. But unlike the Maul he had no compunction for honour.

 

And yet they were forced to deal with him.

 

Owayne's condition had only worsened since their arrival at Greyford, and the physicians were losing hope. Unless the saints granted them a miracle, Charl Brance was the effective leader of the White Ravens – which made him the backbone of Edith's Army.

 

"Was it necessary to torture him?" Said Edward.

 

The `him' in question was a prominent court official called Wilfred. He was one of the first men on Thopswood's list of ducal loyalists that Edward saw fit to arrest and by now all of them were in his custody. But throughout the taverns and inns and marketplaces there was still talk of a counter uprising. Worst still the former Constable of Greyford, Ser John Lolland, had gone to ground, and he was precisely the sort of figure a counterrevolutionary might rally around.

 

For days Edward's men had interrogated the forty captured townsmen for information on Lolland's plot, if any, but none had broken. Until now.

 

Charl cut him a dark smirk. "Edith thought a... sterner hand might help. And so it has. Six days ago Ser John retreated to the nearby village of Wuffolk with a wagon full of arms. At last dispatch he has amassed around 500 men and plots to retake the city once the army marches for Dragonspur."

 

"Just like Thopswood feared," he sighed. "We have to bring this to Edith."

 

Charl glared at Edward then, flatly, and chuckled at him. It was a sound akin to thundercrack. Low and rumbling. "So you bite the fruit but scorn the hand that plucks it? It is a funny sort of morality you Morish operate by. Things are so much simpler in the Gasque Kingdom."

 

If Edith's Army did not need the White Ravens so badly Ed would've told Charl Brance to fuck off back there, post-haste. As it was, it did. So instead he said, `Follow me' and drew his torch's flame back into the subterranean passages of the Undergaol.

 

They emerged from its gaseous depths a half-mile from The Bourse by way of a secret path hidden within a crypt of the city's anonymous dead. Horses awaited them beyond the low stone walls surrounding its cemetery, two spare saddled horses and six mounted swordsmen of Edith's Guard, hooded and wary. Edward doused his torch then proceeded with Charl Brance to mount their mares before riding off.

 

With all its cobbled streets, jettied houses, winding laneways and muddy footpaths the city of Greyford had finally settled into a tense and nervous peace.

 

As Edward bumped along in his horse's saddle, galloping for The Bourse, passing tradesmen shied their eyes from him. Morose mothers pulled a tighter clutch of their babes. And frightened apprentices hurried along the footpaths to their masters' workshops.

 

There was genuine strength of feeling for Edith Oswyke and her men upon their arrival in the city, and though that support still lingered, the majority of Greyford's populace remained wary of them. Kenrick Thopswood (who for all intents and purposes now served as the Lord Mayor of Greyford) worked himself ragged keeping the city afloat. He treated with the wharfinger to reopen the ports and maintain the fisheries. He reopened the burghal courts to adjudicate fresh cases and parleyed with the masters of the merchant guilds (the handful that hadn't yet fled) to keep the marketplaces open for custom.

 

Thopswood was doing everything in his humble power to keep the city afloat. And yet? There was a grim atmosphere throughout its streets. A sense of foreboding. If they did not stamp out Lolland's plot as soon as they could it would find fertile ground here. He knew it.

 

Edward and Charl rode through the city square where the day's fish markets proceeded at a third of its customary size, and where the headless corpse of the Earl of Huxton swung, hung from the black spire of Gedley's Cross by its bound and purpling hooves.

 

Edward and Charl turned the corner into the piazza and galloped down its paved length to The Bourse where they at last dismounted. Their guards unhorsed themselves and stood aside as the two captains hurried up the stone steps into the exchange hall and beyond to its guarded anterooms where the war chamber now convened.

 

The silver-gilt figures, bookcases, and banded chests of the old bankers and magnates that once operated the exchange were drawn to the walls and away from the centre of the room where a mass of tables stood conjoined and draped over with rose-embroidered white cloth. Atop it lay a map of the kingdom. Five varnished chairs were drawn around it for the roundtable: Edith Oswyke, Kenrick Thopswood, Shepherd Godwyn, and now Edward Bardshaw and Charl Brance. Ewers of wine and water were about. As were brass platters of baked bread and cheese wheels.

 

Stood behind Edith's chair was Larkyn, her mute attendant. He poured her a cup of water as her guard captain and deputy commander took their seats. "I hope we finally got something out of that court official."

 

"Indeed," said Charl. His gloved fingertips, still stained with Wilfred's blood, plucked idly at the black moustache perched above his thin lip. "Every bird can sing if you pluck a feather or two. Captain Bardshaw? Would you regale them?"

 

The wide skeletal smile of Thomas Wolner flashed through Edward's mind. "...Kenrick had the right of it. John Lolland dispatched for Wuffolk to amass half-a-thousand men with plans to retake the city when we finally march on Dragonspur."

 

"Of course," said she. "His true colours were plain when first we met. Mine's the blunder. I should've gyved him to an iron ball and dropped him in the river."

 

Thopswood flushed. In truth it was his blunder. It was his counsel to work with the suppliants that surrendered the city to them – Shepherd Stanemore, Ser Reginald Gervase, Ser John Lolland – to smooth over the transfer of power with the city populace.

 

"Shoulder me with the blame," said Thopswood. "It was my poor counsel that led to this."

 

Edith waved him off. "Oh, fret not. Lolland's no more than what he is, a sycophantic irritant fused like a carbuncle to Greyford's backside. We've power enough to cut him off. Charl? I'll grant you 1,000 men and horses. Double Lolland's number. Ride to Wuffolk when we adjourn and snuff the bastard like a candle."

 

A sly nod. "It will be done."

 

Edith glanced at Thopswood. "What of the city?"

 

The Lawyer-turned-Lord Mayor fingered through a thick sheaf of parchment (bills, contracts, promissory notes, loan agreements, writs and requisitions, etc) as if to compound his coming point before he set them down.

 

"There is still so much to do," said he. "But I shall start with the positives. Our supply ships from Ravensborough have arrived. Powder, shot, arrows, helms, and harnesses. We've reopened communications with the other burghal towns and secured trade renewals and oaths of non-interference. Most of the markets and courts have reopened."

 

"Abundantly good news," Edith rolled her eyes. "Soon to be mitigated by the bad, I assume?"

 

Beneath his sheaf of documents lay an itemized checklist drafted by one of Thopswood's newly appointed clerks. He needed the help now that he had a city to run. He fetched for his spectacles to read it. "...I'm informed of violence in the surrounding villages. Ducal loyalists firing the properties of burgesses who have sworn allegiance to you. Six manors have been destroyed in as many days."

 

A sneer. "Go on."

 

"There's been an outbreak of dysentery amongst the soldiers in the Guildsborough ward. 409 infected at last count; and despite our guard patrols the townsfolk report a spike in rapes and cut pursing, which to hear them tell it, our soldiers are responsible for."

 

Edward watched Edith's mood sour. She'd given the men strict orders not to intimidate or exploit the city dwellers, who were after all their fellow countrymen. "Anything else?"

 

"The most pressing matter," said the lawyer. "Our food supply. The city's stores were all either claimed by Huxton on his march north or stolen by escapees before the city's surrender. With most of the ports sealed and the roads so dangerous to travel it will be difficult to provision both the army and the city."

 

Mitigated by the bad, indeed.

 

But none of those ill tidings surprised Edward. The gloomy mood abroad the city was palpable, and it made sense that hunger lay at the root of it. Moreover this was not a city unaccustomed to insurrection. If the citizens of Greyford rose up against Edith as they did against House Drakewell four years ago, the supply line to Ravensborough would collapse and so too would the war effort.

 

"Edith?" Edward turned to her. "What say you?"

 

The Red Princess exhaled. Her brow furrowed as she buried her short nose beneath her threaded fingers. All eyes went to her as she paused to think.

 

"...If we lose our hold on this city we lose everything," she began soberly. "Kenrick? Write to every burgess displaced by these loyalists. Offer them shelter here in Greyford and tell them they will be recompensed for their losses... in bullion and blood."

 

She turned to Edward.

 

"Ed. Go to our captains in Guildsborough. Have them raise twenty companies for dispatchment to the surrounding villages. They are to maintain the peace, investigate any loyalist activity, and protect our supporters' property. There's a chance that Lolland's men are behind this. I'll bet my tits that when Charl brings the fight to him, the burnings will stop."

 

Ed already had the captains in mind. "Understood, Edith."

 

"Speak to them about the dysentery outbreak also. The dead must be taken to the fields for burning or burial. And tell them from me – twenty lashes for any man caught relieving himself outside of a chamber pot or latrine. I won't lose half my men to the fucking flux when we're this close to victory. They can shit in the woods all they like when we've won."

 

A chuckle. "Aye."

 

"As for the cut-pursing? I refuse to believe my soldiers are involved. Double the nightly patrols. Let the citizens see our power and make themselves their own keepers."

 

Charl, yawning, drew his poignard and cut himself a slice of a cheese wheel. "...And the food? In my experience the first ones to riot are the famished."

 

`There's no easy answer to that,' thought Ed. Nothing has a bigger stomach than an army. And judging by the sour look on Edith's face she knew it too.

 

The habitually observant Shepherd Godwyn took that as his cue to speak. "The temples provide for the poorest of ye flock, Edith. And they are ye flock now. Treat them well."

 

A sigh.

 

"We must do what we can," said Edith. "I'll write to Albert Bacon at Fort Silvermere and see if he can't spare us a few hundred barrels of grain and wheat. We can also expand the foraging parties and call down fresh provisions from Ravensborough. And, if needs be, we will ration. But with any luck it will not come to that. The only real solution is to march on Dragonspur as swiftly as we would before we lose the momentum."

 

Edward Bardshaw was new to war. It was bloody and it was haunting. But he was slowly learning its nuances. Slowly. And from what little he knew Edith was right – they had to expedite the march. Tarrying in Greyford only granted the Duke more time to rebuild his army, fortify Dragonspur for the coming siege, and perhaps call-in aid from The Empire. Worst still this was the tail end of the campaign season and St. Bosmund's winter was fast approaching. Wintering in Greyford was not an option, especially whilst short of food. Despite all the devotion she inspired, Edith the Exile could not hold this army together until St. Jehanne's Spring. They had to march soon.

 

Footsteps approached from without. Frantic ones. And then a fist pounded the door.

 

"WE AREN'T DONE IN HERE!" Yelled Ed.

 

A familiar voice yelled back. "GOOD, THEN LET ME IN!"

 

`Harry?' Ed blinked. "Is that you?"

 

Edith's smile returned to her as she motioned for one of the two billmen standing sentry to open the door. He nodded, unbolted it, and then Harry `Hotfoot' Grover came strutting through, grinning ear to ear. He came fresh from the road judging by how dirty his hooded cloak and riding leathers were. And he looked tired. But by the saints Harry was jubilant. Edward Bardshaw launched out of his oak chair and threw his arms around him. "Thank the saints you're back!"

 

"Hah!" Harry grinned. "If only a woman were this happy to see me! But I'll settle for you, churl."

 

Larkyn, without being asked, pulled a chair from one of the stray furniture stacks shoved into the corners of the room and brought it to the table.

 

"Thank you, Larkyn." Harry fetched a small pouch from his cloak folds and placed it inside the boy's palms. He ruffled the boy's hair. "Candied almonds, your favourite. Don't eat them all at once."

 

Smiling, Larkyn withdrew to Edith's side.

 

Harry took his seat.

 

"Good to have you back, Hotfoot." Said Edith. "I'll have you tell us everything that occurred on the road but first? What of Roschewald?"

 

The very name soured Edward's belly.

 

"Roschewald is dead," said Harry, smiling. "The Wallenheim Delegation has a new leader who offers you this."

 

Harry Hotfoot pulled a ribboned letter from his cloak, waxed with the seal of House Roschewald. He gave it to Edith (who broke it open), but it was written in cipher, so she passed it to Thopswood who cracked it in moments.

 

"Dear Edith..." he began. "...I am afraid that your intended recipient...Gustavius von Roschewald... is dead. He was killed in the unrest by..."

 

`Lothar no doubt,' thought Ed.

 

"...by Morishmen outraged at the convocation's declaration of the 2^nd Greyford Regency. However. I do not mourn for my late master for I share that outrage. As you were once exiled to the cold wastes of Wallenheim, so too was I, by Greyford's own will. I have seen with my own eyes the contempt our people have for the Duke. This realm will split itself in two so long as he retains power. Therefore..."

 

Harry's smile was infectious. It spread around the table as Thopswood's recitations continued.

 

"...therefore I pledge to you the Wallish contingent at Bunt."

 

The table exploded with cheers. Heartfelt, booming, tearful cheers. Even Edward found himself uproarious. A grinning Harry banged his fist to the table yelling, "Come on! Come on! Come on!" as little Larkyn scrambled around them with the wine ewer to pour them all a fresh cup.

 

There were tears beneath Thopswood's spectacles. He wiped them away before concluding the letter. "...I've issued Harry with a second letter detailing our manpower, ships, and inventory..."

 

The Hotfoot fished it out and slapped it on the table.

 

"...You will have 3,000 men at your disposal. But this pledge comes with a stipulation. When you assume the regency, my landholdings in Gead must be restored to me..."

 

"Done." Said Edith. "I'll hang de la More by the bollocks."

 

"...if these terms are favourable to you then we must act as soon as possible. At the writing of this letter I have sent orders for the contingent to sail for the eastern coast. By the time this letter reaches you our ships will have landed. Beacons will be lit at the shoreside cliffs and Greyford will quickly receive word of their arrival, placing me in great danger. Therefore you must make haste with your forces. My men have orders to rally with your army at Gigod's Rock by the 56^th of Autumn..."

 

"That's three days' time..." Said Edward.

 

"...meet them there and proceed with haste to Dragonspur. I will need to secrete myself from Greyford's sight until the city falls. From this point on my fate and that of the realm are in your hands. I pray you. Win this war and close this ugly chapter of Morish history for good and all. For the Folkweal."

 

Edward thumped his fist to his chest – that old salute of the Crow's Club. "For the Folkweal..." He whispered. "For Will and Stillingford..."

 

Edith's smile grew strong. "Alright then, boys. We've got a fucking siege to plan! First things first, Thopswood, I want you to-"

 

Harry leaned into Edward's ear as Edith and the others discussed the tasks ahead. "He has a letter for you too, Ed."

 

The messenger slipped it to him under the table. He felt its texture between his thumb and finger. He sighed.

 

"How..." Edward caught his breath. "...How was he?"

 

Harry smiled softly. "Staying strong. But he misses you, Ed. And I reckon you miss him too."

 

**********

 

The Black Quay, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

53^rd of Autumn, 801

 

Francis Gray felt light that day. Light. As if he were a feather. As if he were a wraith. As if the slightest of breezes might flick him away into the estuary. He hadn't eaten in a day. Hadn't slept in two. And yet there he stood... buoyed by his own emptiness. Saddled with his own incessant thoughts.

 

`The die is cast,' He thought again and again and again. `And there is no turning back.'

 

The boy curled a gloved hand over his brow and tilted his gaze up to the greying skies above the port, where the wheeling gulls squawked, and curtains of broken morning light filtered through dreary clouds to gild the ships and their rocking masts. `The die is cast...'

 

"Fran?"

 

It was Inga who called to him, her teeth chattering as she stroked her arms for warmth beneath her cloak's folds. She would be the last of the household women to board, though Fran made certain to give them his goodbyes (and a purse of marks each for their troubles). He did not love them. But neither did he hate them. Once upon a time, perhaps, but not now.

 

"Fran?" The cook palmed his half-cloaked shoulder. "Oh, you look thin, lad. I hope you'll keep up your meals without my cooking."

 

These days he was bereft of appetite. Good wine and bread sufficed. But Fran felt... he would miss her cooking. He'd miss her cream & apple strudels and curried sausages, her braised cabbage and breadcrumbed chicken cutlets. He would miss her too.

 

"I will," said the clerk. "Whenever I am suffered to sit to some boring Morish fish pie... I'll close my eyes and think of your herring salad instead."

 

She chuckled. Said nothing. They only watched quietly as the halberdiers passed them by, two by two, each pair of men ferrying a bit of luggage between them. Chests. Chairs. Strongboxes. Portraits. Rugs. Casks. Pots. And then at the last, upon the shoulders of four men, came the casket of one Gustavius von Roschewald, Viscount of Wallenstadt and the late Wallish Ambassador to the Kingdom of Morland. Fran paid the woodworkers handsomely for it – teakwood boards painted onyx black and gilded with his initials and house sigil. It was far more than he deserved but it would not do to send him back to Wallenheim a pauper. Until such time pretences must be maintained.

 

The four halberdiers' carried Gustave's black casket down the length of the pier to The Mariemaia, one of the Duke of Greyford's personal carracks, to be lifted onto its deck by rope and pulley.

 

Fran barely cast it a frown. Even in his own thoughts he had nothing to say, nothing to punctuate the moment. What was there left to say? It took ten long years, but Francis Gray kept his word and finally broke free of that man. If nothing else – he was free.

 

Inga hugged him. Kissed his forehead. Wished him well. Said she was sorry. Fran did not know what she was apologizing for, but he could guess. Not that it mattered anymore.

 

"Safe travels, Inga."

 

The older woman did her best curtsey and made her way.

 

It was Edrick, Captain of the Guard, who approached him next. He caught the sun's pale rays from that polished breastplate of his, doffing his cap and inclining to Fran as he stopped to say goodbye.

 

Fran painted a smile on his face. "You look seaworthy."

 

Edrick's smile was genuine. "It will not last. I will be heaving my guts out as soon as we depart." He chuckled to himself, idly. "...It is not too late you know. To come with us I mean."

 

He said as much the night prior when Fran was wracking his brain trying to strike the right tone in his final letter to Neidhart. Edrick had knocked and asked to come in, Francis fixed him a cup of wine and sat him down. `Matters are so chaotic in this country at present,' he'd said. `Why not come home with us where you will be safe?'

 

Fran thanked him for his compassion. Called it sweet. Called him likewise. Then he explained that he still had work to do in Morland. Moreover – it was home. It was wet and muddy and grey and gloomy. But it was home. Despite spending damn near half his life in Wallenheim, it could never be that for him. It could never be home.

 

Fran kissed the captain's bearded cheek.

 

"Thank you, Edrick. But I have to stay."

 

The halberdier sported a little smile as he nodded his acknowledgement. A small smile. A sad smile. A smile that made Fran think... perhaps this person cared for him more than he realized.

 

"Please give my greetings to Chairman Neidhart," said Fran, handing Edrick a sealed missive. "And please give him that. My last dispatch as a member of House Roschewald."

 

Edrick took the letter and put it away. "May the saints grant you good fortune, then." Said he. Then he swiftly turned his back, clutched his scabbard, and proceeded off down the pier towards the ship.

 

A few of the chambermaids waved at him from the deck. Fran waved back, inclined his head, then returned to the bollarded stonework of the Black Quay's promenade.

 

He thought back to the summer, to that day when the Wallenheim Delegation first landed here. How crowded it was. How it bustled with its packed taverns and beer halls, its smithies and fisheries, its wharfs and waystations, its ice merchants and oyster shuckers. Stevedores tramping, naval recruiters ranting, Odoists preaching. The very seat of Morish commerce.

 

But now, with the Lord Regent having sealed the ports, the Black Quay was only a shell of itself. Those who remained served only one purpose – to send supplies to the port town of Lludmonton, where a new ducal army slowly mustered.

 

As Fran passed them by, the stevedores, cabin boys and mariners all whispered amongst themselves. The whispers were mostly idle. Which ship's captain could win in a sword fight. Which alehouse brewed the best beer. Which pot girl had the biggest tits. But there was other talk. Talk less idle. Talk of lighted beacons and Wallish galleons landing to the north at Pyke's End.

 

Word of their deployment was already spreading throughout Morland. And when word finally arrived in Wallenstadt, it would be too late for Neidhart Roschewald or the Council of Lords to countermand it.

 

`The die is cast,' thought Fran again. `And there is no turning back.'

 

**********

 

Guildsborough, City of Greyford, Kingdom of Morland

53^rd of Autumn, 801

 

Edward Bardshaw eyed his letter. It had a seal to crack (which he did) but upon opening it he found no cipher to break. It was written for him in simple Morish lettering. No room for misinterpretation.

 

 

Edward Bardshaw lowered his letter.

 

Harry Grover was with him, gnawing at a hank of bread and washing down its crumbs with blood wine at a side table. Outside their rooms the men of Edith's Army were raucous. Those twenty companies bound for the villages (a full host of 2,000 men) now mustered by the riverbank encampment. Charl Brance and his 1,000 men had already ridden out for Wuffolk to rout Ser John Lolland and his nest of traitors, and as he left the captains spread word of the coming march. Gleeful soldiers poured out of their Guildsborough billets into the cold night streets – waving torches, banging pots, singing songs, and chanting DOWN WITH GREYFORD at their height of their lungs.

 

"Shut the window, Harry."

 

Cheek bouncing, the Hotfoot did just that. The riotous din of chants and war song receded into a muffled form of itself.

 

The Imperial who once called this place home was a money man judging by the implements he abandoned in his abrupt flight. There were copybooks and abaci, a counting board and stacks of ledgers along with writing equipment: ink jars and goose feathers.

 

`And where is he now?' Edward thought. Was he sleeping under the stars, clutching a knife to his breast when the wolves howl? Or rocking in some rat-infested ship's hull bound for the mainland?

 

`I did that.' Thought he. `I did that to you.'

 

His thoughts stopped short of an apology. Who was there left to apologize to? Can you repent your evil outside of your victim's company?

 

By now Harry's cup was dry and his fingers empty. He dusted off the crumbs. "So then? What does he say?" A pause. "Or am I too young and impressionable a soul to know?"

 

The jape did not move Edward to laughter. "...He says he wants to meet me. Asks me not to march south with Edith."

 

"Ah. He's always been a tender-heart has our Fran."

 

`Tender-hearts don't keep assassins on the rolls,' thought Ed, frowning.

 

And then the raven-pecked dead floated into his mind. A few thousand churned up corpses manuring the soils of Brookweald with the salt-iron tang of their blood. How many had Edward Bardshaw laid to rest there, never to return to their families? Lothar was a killer and Fran held the killer's leash... but Edward was a killer too now. What an ugly fraternity.

 

"Ed? You alright?"

 

A tear hit the parchment. A tiny tipple of a thud. And then a second followed. And then a third. How odd. When did he start crying? Why was he crying? Why did he suddenly feel... like that little boy again? That angry little boy washed up at the Black Quay of Dragonspur with nothing but the clothes on his back and the locket around his neck?

 

He thumbed the damp from his eyes. How silly of him. To cry. Ser Martyn wouldn't have cried. He'd have said, `Real men shed sweat, not tears.' His sweet old Pa, Egbert Bardshaw wouldn't have cried. He'd have said, `Leave it for the rain, boy. Pick yourself up and keep going.'

 

"...I'm..." Ed threw his face into his palm. "...I am still so... so angry at him. And yet everyday... every morning I wake to see him still. Smiling at me. Calming me. Granting me grace to simply... hold him in my arms. Ever since I was a boy... he was all I ever wanted. And now...?"

 

He choked back a sob. He did not notice the shift of weight against the window, the rock of the chair as Harry Hotfoot launched himself from it. He only felt a hand settle on his shoulder and a warm voice against his ear.

 

"It isn't too late, Ed." Said Harry. "What do you want?"

 

What did he want? What did he want? "...I..." What Edward wanted, all Edward wanted, was Fran. What he wanted was the two of them, together and at peace with a warm little home and a little patch of fertile land to call their own. But... what did he need?

 

He needed all of this... his Ma and Pa, Ser Martyn Morrogh, Theopold Stillingford, Will Rothwell, the Crow's Club... he needed all of it to mean something.

 

Yes, Fran had done evil. And in service to the whims of others so too had Edward. The honour that Ser Martyn slaved so tirelessly to foster in him had been sundered. If he did not see this through... if he did not do all he could to see this realm through the tumult of Stillingford's dark prophecy, then what was it all for? What was the point? How could he come this far, do all this, if only at the last to turn his back on history for the sake of his own happiness? What sort of man would he be then?

 

"...I want Fran." Ed said, genuinely. "I want him more than my next breath. But I need to keep fighting...! Because if I stop fighting..."

 

The screaming swordsman charged through his mind again, dying by his hand again. The Lord Mayor blinded again. The Queen Dowager stripped again. The Guildsborough aliens tossed out again. That ducal loyalist tortured again. Will Rothwell beaten into a staggering shadow of himself again. The severed head of Theopold Stillingford, that benevolent grandsire to an ungrateful brood, tumbling into a bloody basket... again. If Edward stopped fighting...

 

"...then all was for naught..."

 

**********

 

Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

53^rd of Autumn, 801

 

Francis Gray idled through his letters. He was in no great rush to answer them. Days ago, when the Standing Guard put down the rebel uproar and made the city's streets safe to walk again, Manse de Foy was inundated with a backlog of letters, restricted hitherto either at the ports or trapped with any messengers forced to shelter at their coaching houses until calm returned. Most were addressed to Gustave; Wallishmen complaining of attacks on their property by Morish natives or seeking financial aid for some gaoled fellow of theirs. But other letters were sent to the Wallenheim Delegation more specifically. Some were from Morishmen seeking household positions for their Wallish wives. Some were bills for purchases made in the run-up to late King Oswald's Northern Progress.

 

And a handful of letters were directed to Fran himself.

 

Two were fraudulent – letters from people he'd never heard of claiming to be long lost cousins of his from Gead. Bunkum, obviously. Fran's only sibling died in the womb a decade before his birth and his uncle William sired no children before his execution – unless you believed the Greyfords' claims about Edith – but these days, who did? Fran ignored them and tore them up.

 

Another was an invitation to supper from the newly re-elected Lord Justiciar, the Earl of Gainsley. He (or one of his clerks) wrote: I am told that you studied Continental Law at Strausholm. I should like to dine with you. I believe there is much to be discussed. He concluded his invite with an almost charming abruptness. You will accept.

 

He probably would.

 

The last letter was from Lady Cecily. Fresh. Probably written a day or two ago. When you spend so much time writing or reading letters for your betters you learn the distinctions.

 

She wrote:

 

 

`If he dies then you suddenly find yourself a rather wealthy heiress,' thought Fran. `Being unmarried and of age to inherit...'

 

You could almost hear the shrewd glee in her tone. It truly was all just a game to her. He turned the page.

 

 

Fran could only imagine what `dark delights' she spoke of. But before he could even think of his reply, there was a knock at the door. He leaned up from his desk.

 

"Come in."

 

The door parted for Lothar.

 

His habitual cloak was gone. Pussyfoot and Bullyfoot were gone. His whispering boots and sneaking leathers were gone too – replaced with a more suitable attire, a silver-buttoned black doublet atop a petticoated white undershirt, and russet breeches over cotton hose – largely at Fran's behest. While out of duty Lothar had no need to go creeping about the halls as he had during Gustave's tenure.

 

"How do I look?" Asked Lothar, blankly.

 

"Well fitted." Replied Fran, smiling. "You cut a charming figure out of leathers."

 

The espial frowned. "Do you think this is the end of it?"

 

Neidhart was his meaning. In his final dispatches to the Chairman of the Council of Lords, that letter he handed to Edrick at the Black Quay, Fran wrote that Lothar would remain with him in Morland as his protector. It was an impertinent move that wasn't likely to go down well with Neidhart – neither as Chairman of the Council of Lords nor as the Lord of House Roschewald.

 

But did he know that Lothar was his nephew?

 

It was impossible to tell. But something suggested otherwise to Fran. Neidhart was a stern and self-serious sort of man. He did not share his brother's penchant for lustfulness and depravity. Nor was he likely to retaliate – not for this anyway. Those 3,000 Wallish soldiers alighting at Pyke's End and mobilizing for Gigod's Rock were far more likely to brook his anger.

 

Though Fran said nothing to sooth his fears, Lothar pulled something approximating a smile. "I... I have someone I want to re-introduce you to."

 

The Catspaw knocked the wall.

 

His brother, Luther Roschewald, walked aimlessly into the room, hand in hand with one of the Morish chambermaids under steward Perrin's direct employ. He came dressed in a larger cut of the same outfit as his twin brother (doublet, breeches and hose) fitted to him by one of the local tailors. Not that he could have appreciated it. Luther looked on, eyes intently fixed upon the empty spaces of the room, suckling at his thumb and scratching at his wild tangle of conker-brown hair. Lothar cuddled his larger twin by the shoulders, but Luther was barely aware of it.

 

"Luther?" The espial pointed to Fran. "This is our friend, Francis. Say hello?"

 

His icy blue eyes tilted up and rolled absently in Fran's general direction but did not meet the clerk's gaze.

 

Fran greeted him instead. "Hello, Luther. It is nice to meet you. Properly."

 

His absent gaze did not budge.

 

The chambermaid piped up. "My uncle's son was much the same, masters, barely get a word out of him all year round, always staring into space," Quoth she. "Finnicky about all sorts. Crowds, bright lights, loud noises. It's worse when they're restless, let me tell you. How about this? Let me fix him a mug of warm milk with a sprinkle of nutmeg? That always settled our Alfred down."

 

Lothar eyed her coldly, as if she were interfering, as if to say, my brother is not your Alfred, but he did not object to the request. He stepped aside. And taking the gesture for permission, the Morish chambermaid tightened her grip of Luther's hand, smiling broadly like a mother to her lost child.

 

"Come along, young master." She said, leading Luther away. He acquiesced without complaint.

 

Lothar shut the door behind them.

 

A sigh. Fran's sigh. "No one outside these walls can know we've released Luther, my friend. No one."

 

A nod. Lothar's nod. "...I understand."

 

On the face of it, with Manse de Foy's occupant household being broken up and shipped off back to Wallenstadt, it was safe to finally bring Luther out of that hellhole hospice Gustave left him to rot in all these years.

 

But danger lurked still.

 

To a discerning eye – losing track of a Roschewald successfully retained for so many years might prove a coincidence too many. According to Lothar the Hospice of St. Bosmund took some damage during the rebel unrest, with any luck Luther Roschewald's disappearance would be attributed to that. Still. Better to play it safe.

 

"Fran?"

 

The man in question looked up from a reverie he hadn't felt himself fall into. "Hm?"

 

"Thank you," said Lothar. He tried his best at a smile. A real one, not an espial's plastered one. "For everything you have done for me."

 

Fran smiled back. "You are my friend and closest ally. We could never have come this far without you. The thanks is mine to give."

 

Lothar withdrew. "I will attend to my brother. I shall see you in the morning."

 

"In the morning, then."

 

The door clicked shut.

 

Francis Gray was alone again. Alone with the candle flickers and the snaps of the hearth, alone with his letters and wine, alone with his thoughts. Alone with The Fiend.

 

HE, HE, HE... it tittered. HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH!

 

The nightly winds shook the newly repaired windows, colder than ever with the slow encroachment of St. Bosmund's winter. But it was The Fiend who made Fran shiver then.

 

WHAT'S WRONG, LITTLE ONE? It mocked. ALL YOU'VE EVER ASPIRED TO LIES IN YOUR GRASP!

 

He ignored his uneaten plate of eels and potatoes and poured himself another cup of blood wine, swallowing a gulp. Wither he go now there was no telling the quality of the next vintage?

 

FRANCIS...

 

A few days ago he conducted his own inventory of the Wallenheim Delegation's goods before the wharfinger's draymen and muleteers came to fetch them for dispatch to the Black Quay. Much was missing. Six casks of wine. Two barrels of beer. A pay-chest (containing 1,000 marks, which was no small sum). The rebel attack made it impossible to discern how much of the theft was internal or external, which ironically made things easier to justify.

 

YOU CANNOT IGNORE ME...

 

In the morning Fran would sit down with Perrin the Steward to overview Manse de Foy's own inventories. Much of the furniture was a write-off and there were bills to settle – 175 King's Marks to the glassmakers for the panes and latticework. 200 marks to the gardeners for re-pruning the hedges. 99 half-marks to the midden-men for collection of waste and debris. 300 marks for-

 

BUSY YOURSELF WITH WORK ALL YOU LIKE, it taunted. YOUR LITTLE LETTER WILL NOT MOVE HIM! IF IT'S LOVE WITH YOU OR WAR WITH EDITH, EDWARD WILL CHOOSE WAR! EDWARD WILL MARCH! EDWARD WILL FIGHT! AND EDWARD WILL DIE!

 

"SHUT UP!" Screamed Fran, hurling his wine cup across the room. He drove his fingers through his hair as if to tear it from his scalp. "Out of my head, damn you, out of my head!"

 

EDWARD WILL DIE! The Fiend tittered. EDWARD WILL DIE!

 

**********

 

Thaddock's Rise, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland

55^th of Autumn, 801

 

There was no sight quite like that of marching men. From the vantage one saw them, Edith's Army, men by the thousands tramping in procession along the beaten road, like some winding serpent, silver-backed and brown-bellied, slithering into the grey distance. As a boy Edward Bardshaw was taught to fear the presence of armies. Armies meant war. War meant strife. Strife meant death. But as he looked to the army, his horse whickering between his thighs, Edward felt no fear. He felt pride. He felt... a sense of history, of a coming dawn, a break of light at the end of a long dark path.

 

And he felt... sadness.

 

Edward set a gloved hand against his polished harness. Deep beneath its protective steel he felt his heart race to thoughts of his life's love – Francis Gray. Once before on that bitter day the boy king of Morland met his saint, Edward took his leave of Francis to ride west for Ravensborough with Harry Hotfoot and his entourage. And now, in the wake of Fran's letter, he could not help but feel... he was running away from him again.

 

Would Francis forgive him?

 

"We'll need to pick up the pace," said Edith. Gone was her dyed red dress and once more was she restored to her steel plate armour. "If we're to meet with the Wallish forces afore time we cannot tarry."

 

"Aye," said Ed.

 

She had the right of it. She had a sense that the army was moving too slow earlier and took a small retinue – Edward, Larkyn, Harry Hotfoot, her standard bearer and ten mounted lancers of her personal guard – and rode east to the nearest vantage point, Thaddock's Rise, to get a sense of how fast and cohesively her men marched. The van and the centremost companies kept a steady speed, but the rearward contingents were falling behind. The serpent's bottom third was splitting off into its own, backing up towards the baggage train.

 

Something was slowing them down. "Hotfoot?"

 

"Aye, Edith?"

 

"Ride to the rear-guard," said she. "Tell their captains to pick up the pace before they drop behind. I know they're tired, but we'll make camp once we're in sight of Gigod's Forest."

 

"Aye."

 

Nodding, Harry guided around his piebald mare and snapped at her reins to gallop off down the foot trails carved into the breadth of Thaddock's Rise.

 

A portion of the men posted to the rear made up the forces that rode to Wuffolk under Charl Brance's command. Their mission was simple – ride into town then root out and destroy Ser John Lolland and his 500 ducal loyalists before the main army set off for Dragonspur. But someone (presumably Ser John's scouts) got word to the bastard that 1,000 mounted men were coming Wuffolk's way. Charl and his men rode through the night and arrived at Wuffolk by daybreak of the 54^th, but the town was virtually deserted, and those few who remained quickly confessed that Ser John led his men into the woods.

 

It put them in an ugly spot.

 

Retaining the City of Greyford was vital to maintaining their line of supply from Ravensborough. Though they established supply dumps at every sympathetic village they passed on the route southeast, holding the city was of maximum import to the campaign. But there was no time to track down Lolland's band, they could not delay the march any further.

 

After garrisoning those 1,000 mounted riders at Wuffolk then riding back to Greyford with his personal guard, Charl Brance convened with Edith at The Bourse to suggest a compromise – that the White Ravens and few thousand men remain in Greyford to hold the city whilst the rest of Edith's Army pressed on to meet with the Wallish forces at Gigod's Rock.

 

`With all due respect to your... volunteers, Edith...' Ed recalled that smooth slippery accent of Brance's all too well. He had said then, `My men are professional soldiers. War is our vocation and we have held cities against enemy action countless times in the Gasque Kingdom. None amongst your army is our measure in that regard. So what say you?'

 

That night, last night, Edward attended council with Edith, Harry, Thopswood, Godwyn, and Charl (having spent the brunt of the day preparing the men to march) and for the first time he saw in Edith some slight spark of hesitation.

 

And rightly so.

 

Owayne mac Garrach, commander of the White Ravens and architect of their great victory at Brookweald, was as loyal as they came, a Morishman born with a score to settle against the Duke. Charl Brance on the other hand? Charl was the bastard son of a Gasqueri nobleman and a Morish whore. Nothing but the promise of war tied him to this land. His ultimate loyalty was to his purse. Edward did not trust him and neither did Edith.

 

But they needed him.

 

The Red Princess had threaded her fingers and smiled, smiled oh so curtly. `I'm going to trust you to hold this city, Charl.'

 

And the half-alien had smirked at her. Coolly. `As you should. As I trust that for my troubles I shall return to Gasque a very wealthy man.'

 

`You will,' was her reply. `Or you won't return at all.'

 

*

 

"So?" Said Harry. "What's the plan?"

 

The three of them, Edith the Exile, Harry Grover, and Edward Bardshaw, drew their wooden chairs around a lacquered table at the centre of the command tent, whilst mute Larkyn hovered around them, re-filling their cups and clearing their crumbs as they spoke. The table was laden with ewers of water, blood wine and Morish ale and with a platter of day-old bread and venison fillets, cooked fresh from the scavenger's morning hunt.

 

But it also had two maps spread out and four pairs of pewter paperweights cleaved in the shape of griffins holding them in place.

 

One such map was of Morland, speckled with particoloured marbles, white for rebels and black for loyalists, each marble denoting a thousand men. One white marble was positioned at Fort Silvermere. Five white marbles were positioned at the city of Greyford, with another two along its village outskirts. One at Wuffolk. And nine at the mouth of Gigod's Forest – representing the bulk of Edith's Army. Fortifying their stronghold at Greyford had cost the main forces harshly in troop numbers, but there were other marbles too – three red ones nestled at the eastern side of the forest, the Wallish contingent; its captains set to meet with her at the secluded monument known as Gigod's Rock, deep in the heart of the forest.

 

And the other?

 

The other was a map of the capital, Dragonspur. Surrounded by twelve marbles, nine white and three red – two whites outside each of its gates, whilst one white and three red were positioned at the northeastern wall – Edith's prospective siege plan to be parlayed with the Wallish.

 

It was impossible to discern how many men Greyford had at his disposal. If, as Francis Grey had claimed, half of the Standing Guard had joined with Thomas Wolner's King's Eyes to purge the city of rebels, then that made up for at least 5,000 men – and so Edith had set them upon the map – one black marble to each gate and another for Staunton Castle.

 

From Ed's position, the advantage was theirs. But this was a siege, not the field. This would not be like Brookweald. And worst still – their master strategist, Owayne mac Garrach, could not hand hold them through this impending conflict. Nor had they Charl Brance and The White Ravens to rely upon.

 

Victory here would have to be seized by Edith's own hand.

 

"There." She pointed a dirty fingernail at the city's northern gate. "By Gray's letter the Wallish have twenty sakers at their disposal, ten times as many as we do. The goal's to create a breach in those walls, enter the city, rouse as many of our sympathizers as possible, seize the Three Beasts, then storm Staunton Castle from the north. We surround it, choke it off, then force a surrender."

 

Talk of `sympathizers' in the city made Edward think of Basil Smeadon. He'd heard of the guildsman's attack on Manse de Foy through Harry, how his dunderheaded crusade against the Imperial Ambassador put Fran in jeopardy, and worst still, he'd squandered so much of the city-based manpower loyal to Edith. If he just kept his powder dry and held out for Edith's advance...

 

"What about the Standing Guard?" Said Ed. "Fighting on the open field is one thing, but fighting down the capital's streets is another."

 

Edith palmed her temple tiredly, eyeing the black marbles. "...That was where the White Ravens would have come in. It will be bloody, there's no denying it. But we have no choice. My guess is they'll blockade most of the laneways and turn the Old King's Way into a chokepoint, post archers and arquebusiers to the rooftops, then draw us in for the slaughter."

 

Harry's brows peaked. "Are we to serve up our necks then...?"

 

"We have archers of our own," said Edith. "No one said this would be easy. But we have the advantage of numbers. The priority is breeching those walls. Without that then the luck of the saints couldn't help us."

 

Edith stood up, now dressed down out of her armour into a simple rouge doublet and russet breeches, a sheathed poignard dangling from her belt. Edward and Harry followed suit, both of them in harness, but only Ed was fitted for battle. Harry wanted to fight, had demanded to fight even, but Edith's no was resounding and adamant. `I need my Hotfoot at the ready to deliver terms.'

 

"I've sent scouts ahead into Gigod's Forest," said Edith. "I need you to convene with them when they return, Harry."

 

Though reports had come in from Lludmonton of a general muster for a second ducal army, in so far as they knew, the Duke of Greyford had no significant troops north of the River Wyvern. Still. Better to ere on caution's side than be caught unawares.

 

Harry nodded. He was smiling, but he was not his usual japing self that evening. Edward thought, `He senses what I sense. That this is it. This will be our defining moment.'

 

"Aye, Edith. I'll drop word to the perimeter guards that the scouts should come to me. As soon as they do, I'll report back."

 

The Hotfoot excused himself, adjusting the leathered strap of his dagger belt on his way out. Edward nodded his head and moved to follow him. But Edith said: "Ed? Hold a moment."

 

Edward turned back to her, his steel armour rattling about his body. "Edith?"

 

Larkyn (as attuned to his mistresses' needs as ever he was) poured two fresh cups of wine for them. He did not dismiss himself but returned to the bear-fur pallet at the other side of the tent. He would sleep here tonight, as would Edith, for the morning brought with it far too much to do.

 

Edith sat down again.

 

Sensing his cue to do the same, so too did Edward. They sat for a moment in the purest silence – punctured only by the sounds of the encampment ringing beyond the sheets of the command tent, the tinkering of metal, the simmering of pots, the crack of campfires and the gruff chatter of men gearing themselves for fate – victory or the gates of glory.

 

The Red Princess set the cup to her lips and sipped. "You know who I miss?"

 

"Hm?"

 

"Thopswood."

 

Edward chuckled to himself. "I think perhaps... you're the only woman who's ever said that."

 

She chuckled too, lightly. "The times are truly disarrayed for grim old Ed Bardshaw to try his hand at a jape."

 

"Was it a good one?"

 

"It made me laugh so it will serve," Edith took another sip. "I do wish he was here though. He offered good counsel."

 

At present he remained at the City of Greyford with a small guard of 200 billmen. Edith needed him there to keep the city running in her absence as well as to coordinate the supply lines with Mistress Alyse in Ravensborough. And, of course, to keep an eye on Charl Brance.

 

The swordsman thought back to the Crow's Club days. Will Rothwell always spoke well of Kenrick, but he and Ed never talked much. He found himself wishing... they'd known each other a little better.

 

"He is a good man," said Edward. "Comports himself well."

 

"So we all try to. We don our best mask and put our best foot forward then hope to the saints it's enough. What else can we do?" A sigh. "Do you remember what I asked you that day we camped outside the Oxwood?"

 

How could he forget?

 

"You asked if you could trust my judgement," he said. "About Fran. Something about slitting both our gizzards."

 

Edith smiled. "Gray dwells at the epicentre of all this. And he was right to say he takes a great risk. So I ask you again. Can I trust your judgement?"

 

Edward's chest felt heavy. The harness wore wearily at his shoulders. He thought of his childhood love, Francis Gray, and of his letter. How stubborn and heartfelt it was. How Francis begged Edward to await him at Greyford.

 

And how he could not do that.

 

`Francis Gray is lost to me,' thought Ed. `All I can do for him now is dedicate my sword arm to a better world... and trust him to find a safe place in it. I have to keep fighting...'

 

He exhaled.

 

"Yes. You can trust my judgement. Always. Come what may I am with you. To the last of the blood."

 

A smile. "This world might be a better place if more men were made in your like, Ed Bardshaw. I'm glad to have met you. I wish... I'd have met Stillingford too."

 

Edward took a sip of wine.

 

"Ed?"

 

He looked to her. He watched the shoulders of The Red Princess rise and deflate. He watched her sigh again as she swirled the last remnants of her wine. He watched her eyes sparkle with tears unfallen.

 

"If... if we fail... or if I die in battle... and you survive... I want you to take Larkyn and go as far north as possible. Don't take him to my grandfather. Just go north."

 

"Edith. That will not be-"

 

"Promise me, damn you." She said sharply. "Promise me."

 

Edward threw a glance over at the boy. He was already asleep, his little chest rising and falling against his bearskin coverlet. He was an adorable little thing. But why was Edith so fearful for him? "...I promise."

 

Silence.

 

Edith polished off the last of her wine.

 

And then...

 

"His name is not `Larkyn'," she said. "His birth name is Edwulf. Edwulf Oswyke. He is my son."

 

The swordsman's jaw almost dropped.

 

Edith? The Exile? A mother? Of all the women throughout all the world to have joined that beleaguered brood, never would Edward Bardshaw have pegged Edith the fucking Exile as a member. And yet he saw the similarities. The nose. The freckles. The eyes. The texture and colour of his hair, just a smoky version of his mother's flaming red tresses. But why? Why had she not said anything before now? Why keep his birth a secret? And who was his father?

 

"Say something, Ed."

 

He said the first thing that blurted to mind. "I... I thought you were a virgin."

 

The Red Princess burst out laughing so hard it almost woke Larkyn from his rest. And that time the tears did spill. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh, bless your fucking heart, Ed Bardshaw! I hope you find some happiness in this world; I truly do! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

 

`Stillingford said the same thing,' Thought he, smiling. `I wonder if I will?'

 

Edith wiped the tears from her eyes, sobered up. Took a pause and then a breath. Waited for her grin to cool down. "He has the blood of Houses Oswyke and Wulfsson running through his veins, Ed. If the Duke knew who he really was... he'd fetch a thousand daggers for his back. Only you and Alyse know. And the only reason I'm telling you this is because I trust you. Wholly. I don't know why... but I see what Stillingford saw in you. I see what Francis Gray sees in you. You're a good man, or at the very least one of the few trying to be. And I trust you to do what's just. If I fall, keep him safe."

 

He swore to it.

 

Afore saint and man.

 

Then Ed looked at the boy again, the son of The Red Princess, this Edwulf `Larkyn' Oswyke, utterly stunned. And then it dawned on him. It hit him like a thunderbolt. `If she falls... then that boy would be the rightful...'

 

"King," said Edith, reading his expression. "Tenth of his name."

 

**********

 

Street of Joy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

55^th of Autumn, 801

 

The carriage buckled. Francis Gray held tight to the lacquered armrest. The rebel turmoil even damaged the roads. The clerk cast a glance at Lady Cecily, rocking to and fro along with him, yet utterly unperturbed. Smiling even.

 

"It was an awful, hideous, pungent sort of thing," The subject of her descriptions was her late father's severed head. Her soft hands stretched out and cast its shape in the air. "Bloated and blue like some evil toad. The Ysgraves brought it to us in a cushioned box. Saints only know why. But you should have seen poor Master Henry's face! Gelid as a ghost! I believe I've seen snow drifts with more colour."

 

Fran did not answer her. His gaze took him to the frosted window where the streets of Dragonspur passed them by. Only three days prior had the Three Beasts re-opened to the northern half of the city, and repairs were already underway. But it was only then that Fran saw the true extent of the destruction wrought by the rebels. Whole southern-side precincts were now nothing more than smouldering ash. Temples and taverns stood in dusty rubble heaps of their former selves. Carts wheeled by with unclaimed corpses and there were still more bodies left to be collected.

 

It made Fran wonder if they really were safe to travel this far into the heart of Dragonspur without an armed escort. But Lady Cecily did not share his concern – though she read it plain on his face when she turned to him. Her painted lips curled into a scarlet smile.

 

"Oh fret not." She purred. "We are safer than you think."

 

He eyed her. "...How easily you take to all this."

 

"What cannot be changed must be faced – why not with a smile? Sometimes strength lies only in its projection."

 

`This is not an act,' Thought Fran. `This is who you are...'

 

Lady Cecily sighed, perching her chin upon her palm. "Well if it please you to know... the court shares your sour mood. Our army's destruction at Brookweald came as a bit of a shock, I suppose. They say the Bloody Maid will march on the capital within days. I shall have to order my affairs before I depart."

 

Fran felt the knot within his stomach twist.

 

"Say it."

 

The boy blinked. "What?"

 

"Say it," re-stated Cecily. "You have a question on your face. Put it to words."

 

`...Can you think of no other way to spent your last night in Dragonspur?' Thought Fran. "How are you so...?"

 

The scarlet smile widened. "I sense a `why' in that aborted question. Not a `how'. Let me ask you this. Why does `why' matter? Is it not enough to simply seek the pleasures of this passing world?"

 

Fran put his hands inside his lap. His perfumed gloves were scented with ambergris and embroidered with rose-shaped needlework patterns stitched with gilt thread. A lavish gift from his hostess for the night.

 

"I had a governess once..." Cecily eyed the carriage window, losing herself in the throes of nostalgia. "Lady Gilly. Stern as an ox. Twice as grim. Would sooner beat you for a missing stitch than compliment you for a thousand perfectly done. I hated her. And then one cold winter's night she snuck into my rooms... and did things to me that made me question my own virtue. Things I was too young to understand. But it was as if... as if a window was opened inside of me. And then when I looked through it... I saw nothing. Nothing. No courage. No virtue. No honour. No pride. Not even love."

 

Silence.

 

"Platitudes all," she said. "As fleeting as a fart in the wind. But pleasure? Nothing is more real, more tangible than that."

 

Fran and Cecily eyed each other.

 

"Our high blood separates us from them," she said, gesturing to the window as the carriage rolled by legions of masons and woodworkers erecting scaffolds around the broken buildings and edifices of the capital. "But only insofar as they allow themselves to believe it. Deep within ourselves we are all empty. What makes us who we are... is what we choose to fill that emptiness with. My wealth gives me that freedom. Their penury denies them theirs."

 

A memory rekindled itself in Fran's mind. Something Edward once said. But it isn't all drudgery, Fran. There's room in it for friendship and joy... and love.

 

Lady Cecily tossed a stray blonde tress from her sight. No gable hood graced her person that night. "If every man in this city had liberty to pursue his pleasures as I do then the fiends of Oblivion would blush. When the commoners wake to it, to that reality, then that will be the day you and I are not safe to brace these streets. And if Edith the Exile wins? That day is soon to come. So what better time than this to avail myself of pleasure?"

 

Silence. Again.

 

A giggle. "Does that answer your question, my Lost Lord?"

The carriage rolled to a stop. And then the late Lord Marshal's daughter turned to Fran and asked: "Shall we go?" And he in turn asked himself – wordlessly – if he wanted to go.

 

Fran gave himself no answer.

 

Out he stepped into the cold broken streets of Dragonspur, lit only by moonlight, and the burning braziers of the sombre workmen fixing scaffolds for tomorrow's repairs. The boy circled the carriage's rear to open Cecily's door and fetch her down, slippered feet to cobblestones. Through the bite of the cold she gave orders to her ruff-collared coachman to collect her in the morrow. He nodded dutifully, tipping his feathered cap to her, flat of expression. Then he whipped at his team of horses to drive them along.

 

Lady Cecily, hand in hand with Francis Gray, led their way down a darkened archway lodged between a coaching house and an enclosed warehouse that, during the day hours, served as a bear-baiting ring. The laneway was tall and lengthy, stretching back into an open yard where broken carriages lay and stench-ridden vagabonds slept beneath their husks for warmth, dogs snarling in the foreground.

 

Fran had a dagger hidden within his breeches. A stiletto. He kept his free hand close to it.

 

Together they crossed the yard to the plywood rear wall of a second warehouse. A barred door lay before them. And by that barred door two hulking watchmen idled. The air about them was riddled with ale and pipe-smoke. They had cudgels tucked into their belts.

 

One of the ruffians said: "Where the permitted withers...?"

 

"...The forbidden blooms." Concluded Cecily. She tossed them a King's Mark each. An entry fee. Both men stood aside and allowed them in.

 

The torch-lit stonework passageway declined along a flight of stone steps that led deep beneath the capital's cold streets into an ancient undercroft extravagantly refurbished and effectively repurposed into a pleasure house that called itself The Lyre. But those who knew of it knew it by its commoner's name.

 

The Whelping Bitch.

 

An old Gasqueri woman greeted them at the threshold. Gaunt and grey-haired she was, pelted in furs and bangles. She was a sell-snatch in her youth, perhaps, but the proprietor of an establishment now. She clapped her jingling hands together.

 

"Milady!" Age hadn't withered her accent. "So good to see you again, hourra! I am glad this ugly business with the agitators did not dissuade you, hm? The usual fare?"

 

Lady Cecily inclined her head. "You know me only too well."

 

"Come, come! Let me see you to your rooms! And remember to ring the bell if you want my girls to fetch you any food or wine!"

 

The old bawd led them down a long stonework path. Its walls were built with brick dating back to the Black Age – one could tell by the stench of the mould – but they were painted over with lime and sheeted with drapes of particoloured cloth. Sticks of incense and bowls of burning sage lit trails of torpid smoke into the air. Crystals and lanterns swung from the ceiling. They passed a hall of locked arched doors and soon Fran began to hear it. The moaning. Some soft and slow, some frantic and racing. Men and women. Young and old. A man and woman in one room. Three women in another. One man in a circle of six in the next.

 

Those doors left unlocked that Fran passed by, he peered into, spying all manner of devices for purposes unfathomable to him. Feathers and chains. Whips and crucifixes. Studded collars and iron cages. Scold's bridles and chastity belts. Shackles. Gags and muzzles. Wooden phalluses and metal phalluses. Beads and harnesses. Gibbets. Ropes. Spikes.

 

"What... what manner of...?"

 

The old Gasqueri woman brought them to their rooms and excused herself. Cecily pulled her companion within and threw off her cloak as Fran eyed their surroundings. Small. Tranquil. Dimly lit by candlelight. A single bed large enough for two. A side table with two cups, a wine ewer, and a platter of shucked oysters fresh from the river. A silver-painted body mirror took up a corner. A mounted chamber pot took up another. A side door conjoined the second room – identical to this.

 

"Look at you." Said Cecily. She went to the side table, poured two cups of Morish red and passed one to Fran. "So anxious. Here. Fortify yourself with a little bottled courage."

 

Fran took a sip and then a second. Then he swallowed it all.

 

A knock.

 

"Ah!" Cecily turned to Fran. "Go let them in."

 

A sigh. Fran drew himself over to the heavy oaken door and unbolted it. When it swung open Fran doubled back to Cecily's side as two tall, hooded figures ducked their shrouded heads beneath the arched threshold to allow themselves in. One of them bolted the door behind them.

 

Cecily bit her lip, smirking. "...Take off your cloaks."

 

Quickened blood pounded inside Fran's ears as two sets of robes flapped to the ground around two pairs of naked ankles. Lady Cecily and the Lost Lord beheld the pair. Two tall and muscled southlanders, utterly naked save for the studded leather hoop collars wrapped around their necks. Inches of thickly veined girth swung freely between their tree-trunk thighs.

"They deal in a more seasoned stock here. More obedient, less rough and tumble..." A scarlet smile broadened. "...in so far as you want them to be. So? Which one are you having?"

 

Fran froze. "...I..."

 

Cecily sighed, setting aside her cup. "You have to make your own fun in this world, Francis. I cannot do it for you."

 

So she did it by proxy. The heiress of Huxton smiled impishly as she sauntered over to the pair of them, eyeing them up and down, passing her hot fingertips over the chiselled contours of their muscled frames, neither man moving an inch. Then she took the man on the right by his manhood – squeezing it. The whore kept his flat expression, but he jerked suddenly, a little twinkle of pleasure flashing through his malt brown eyes. Cecily giggled at it, peering up at him, inching herself up the tips of her toes to sniff the scent of bath oil clinging to his naked black flesh.

 

"You'll suit me fine..." Smiling, Cecily led him over to her room by the meat of his yard, already swelling into stiffness inside her dainty hand. "Be sure to make use of yours, Francis! The Gasqueri woman does not reimburse."

 

The lady's door slammed shut – and bolted from within.

 

Fran stood frozen.

 

The whore held his inexpressive gaze. Not budging an inch. Not breaking a smile. The Lost Lord exhaled, turned around, fixed himself another cup of wine from the ewer, wondering wordlessly how he found himself in this situation. He ate one of the oysters. Cared not for the texture. Poured and swallowed another wine cup to wash away the taste. Then a hand fell upon his shoulder.

 

He jerked.

 

He turned back around.

 

The whore towered over Fran by a head and a half. And by every saint to whom he swore no fealty, the whore was beautiful. Statuesque. Muscle flexed along the sweep of his broad shoulders. His deep thick lashes blinked above eyes of piercing hacksilver, his broad lips curving into a warm smile.

 

"My lord," said he, accent smouldering. "Would you rather... I took the lead?"

 

Fran blinked. "You... you speak Morish?"

 

A little flash of humanity broke through. The tiniest scintilla of irritation – a look of well obviously, you idiot – before the true face dissolved into the forced suppliance of the whore. The whore that smiled and kissed and caressed and placed every gullible customer at the centre of their world for the night... so long as they could pay.

 

The southlander nodded yes, smiling.

 

Fran wondered what brought him here to this foul kingdom. Who was he? Who would travel all this way from the Sandsea just to serve as some back-alley steak to a corrupt nobility? Was he a sailor who ran into a gambling debt? Was he working off an indenture? Or was he just another nihilistic hedonist like Cecily, one with the good sense to turn his quest for pleasure into coin?

 

He would've been one of the first Basil Smeadon turned out if he and his rebels took over the city. Did he and his fellow whore take to The Whelping Bitch for shelter as the rebels ran roughshod across Dragonspur for days on end? Who would yearn to fuck and suck the Morish boneskins that broke out screaming and rioting at the mere presence of him and his sagging old Gasqueri madam, and those damned dockside Wallish tradesmen and those fucking Imperial exiles and delegates?

 

Suddenly... Fran hated his smile.

 

The warm falsehood of it.

 

The cool lie of it.

 

Who was any whore beneath the painted smile? Why lie? Why make a sweetness of a transaction? Why pretend to love and to care and to cherish as someone steals you from your home and ships you off to some icy foreign hellhole, gussying you up as his aide and page, making you organize his accounts and draft his letters and tend his fires as he RAPES you and DEMEANS you and BEATS you if you dare show even a drop of anger?

 

TELL HIM TO SPIT IN YOUR FACE, said The Fiend.

 

"...Spit in my face." Said Fran.

 

The southlander blinked, sceptically. "...What?"

 

TELL HIM AGAIN!

 

"I said spit in my face."

 

A blink. A blink of those thick lashes over those sparkling silver eyes. A look of confusion. A glimpse of reality. "My lord, I... I would never presume to..."

 

YOU PAID FOR HIM...

 

"We paid for you...!"

 

TELL HIM AGAIN!

 

"Spit in my face!" Screamed Fran.

 

A wad of phlegm hit his eye like a slap. It was sudden. It caught him off his feet. He stumbled. It made him low. Lowly. The lowliest. Just like he felt. Just like he was.

 

YOU LITTLE WHORE, growled the Fiend.

 

"...Call me a whore..." Whispered Fran.

 

"...You..." A pause. And then the southlander mustered his courage. "...you are a whore-"

 

LOUDER! Yelled The Fiend.

 

"Louder!" Yelled Fran.

 

"You are a WHORE!" Yelled the alien.

 

TELL HIM TO GRAB YOUR THROAT... said The Fiend.

 

"...Put your hand around my throat," said Fran.

 

A strong black hand snatched his flushed white throat.

 

YOU LITTLE HARLOT...

 

"Call me a harlot!" Yelled Fran.

 

"You're a HARLOT!" Yelled the alien.

 

YOU LITTLE TRAITOR...

 

"Call me a traitor!" Yelled Fran

 

"You're a TRAITOR!" Yelled the alien.

 

YOU'RE WORTHLESS! Roared The Fiend

 

"Tell me how worthless I am!" Roared Fran.

 

"YOU'RE A WORTHLESS FUCKING HARLOT AND A TRAITOR!" Roared the alien.

 

The Fiend sniggered in his ears. TELL HIM TO FUCK YOU...

 

Fran shut his eyes.

 

A tear rolled free. "...Fuck me..."

 

Rough hands tore open his clothes. Buttons popped and flew over the room. Cloth fell from his body. His shirt and breeches were dropped from him so frantically neither Fran nor the whore heard the stiletto clatter against the rugged floor. The boy said nothing as he was thrown off his feet onto the bed, landing face first and naked, inching up his head only to have it slapped down again and buried into the pillows. A heavier bulk clambered atop him, the wooden bed frame groaning under the additional weight.

 

Fran's heart pounded in his chest, his breath racing away, his thoughts sprinting as the southlander kicked his ankles apart and pressed him down by the small of his back. Strong hands gripped the pale globes of his arse, goose-pimpled with cold, and spread them wide.

 

`Oh, Ed...'

 

Sobs and heavy breaths dispersed into muffled noise, stifled as they were by the pillow. And then they became a groan, a deep anxious groan as the bell-head of that stiffened girth pressed into a tightened circlet of bright pink flesh. It spent a decade giving way... it would not stop now.

 

`...Edward...'

 

Through the thin walls Fran heard Cecily, on her back no doubt; screaming, grunting, and groaning with pleasure, that ever-tempting intoxicant with which she filled her emptiness. Fran's were soon to join as the southlander slowly slipped all nine inches of himself into the yielding sphincter until his russet thighs slapped down upon pink-pale cheeks. And then the rutting started.

 

`Edward, I'm so sorry...'

 

Fran cried out. Gripped fistfuls of the bed sheets. Bit the wet pillow to smother his own screams as the alien whore ploughed into him with thrust after slapping thrust. The headboard clattered against the wall. The bed legs shook. The vibration knocked the clay cup from the table and smashed it to pieces over the floor. Babbled murmurs in a southlandish tongue trickled into his ear amidst a pall of hot heaving breath. Fran's whole body rocked back and forth, shoulders jerking faster and faster, until he lifted his tear-soaked face from the feathered pillow to shriek something.

 

`Stop', perhaps.

 

`...I'm just...'

 

And then he saw it for the first time. The Fiend. Staring back at him through the oval-shaped mirror, a corpse-like ghoul dripping with tar... as if a bog body drawn up from the very pit of poisoned mud that drowned him whole an eon ago. A soul who lived and died an eon before anyone ever dared care he existed. Its dark smile broadened. And it watched with delicious delight as its counterpart whimpered helplessly beneath the whore's great thumping weight, his and Cecily's joint screams mingling through the walls.

 

`...broken...'

 

**********

 

Edith's Camp, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland

56^th of Autumn, 801

 

It was the shout, not the scream, that woke him up. A sudden, shrill burst of rage that boomed beyond his tent: WELL BE FUCKED WITH YOU THEN! Edward Bardshaw's eyes shot open. He couldn't tell the sound or the source, but his hand reached instantly for his dagger, one of the glinting poignards the White Ravens brought over with them from the war-torn Gasqueri territories. Ed launched up from his pallet, tapered blade at the ready, his fur coverlet slipping down the muscled ridges of his abdomen.

 

He looked around the tent. No one there. Just a chest and a chair and his sword and armour. Nothing. But then he heard the whimper. The sobbing. The sorrow.

 

`Outside,' he thought.

 

He tore off his coverlet, adjusted his cock inside his under linens and fetched for his breeches, slipping them on. Edward padded over to the tent flap and punted it open. His gaze shot left. The watchman on duty, a billman in harness and sallet, sat snoring in the dirt, his polearm still perched upon his shoulder.

 

"Idiot!" Ed booted him awake. "Edith would have your guts for garters if she were me! Get up!"

 

He woke with a start. "Tch! Ugh? Cap'n Bardshaw? Oh. Oh! S-s-sorry, sir... I... um..."

 

Something caught his eye to the left. Edward followed his glance down the length of the tent rows to a single solitary figure ambling down the grassy path with a staggered gait.

 

Ed called to him "You there! State your name!" thinking him one of the soldiers nursing the stupor of one ale too many the prior night. But then he drew closer. Then, as the first few faint beams of dawn light filtered through the clouded sky, Ed saw the blood running down the man's torn cotton shirt, flowing freely from a torn lip. Then he saw the blackened eye and ripped white hose barely clinging to his thigh. He was not drunk – he'd been beaten.

 

Edward sheathed his dagger and ran up to the man.

 

"Hello? Are you alright?!"

 

When the guardsman went for his shoulders, the beaten man flinched at the touch, frightened, whispering no more under a breath clouded by the morning's chill.

 

"Peace. I mean you no harm," Ed tipped the lad's chin up with his thumb. "Let me take a look at that eye."

 

He looked him steady, eye to eye, blinking when he recognized the man. He thought back to Greyford and that ale-soaked tavern its patrons called The Buck's Head. And then to his room for the night at The Frogger's Barge Inn...

 

"James?"

 

The beaten whore blinked too, lashes fluttering above good eye and bad, looking up at the sound of his own name. A look of recognition. "L-Lord Edward...?"

 

The swordsman eyed the tents. "Who did this to you?"

 

"...Please..." A sob. "P-Please let it be..."

 

Edward demurred, thinking: `This would've never happened before Greyford.' Their sojourn in the city was costing them in discipline. Nevertheless. It was cold and James was barely clothed. Edward quickly guided him back to his tent, barking orders at the guard outside to fetch some water, which he brought a bucket of within a short while.

 

He sat James down to his chair (throwing off the harness and his scabbarded sword) and wrapped the bear-fur coverlet around his shivering shoulders.

 

"Your clothes are in tatters, I'll have to-"

 

James froze, eyes trembling in their sockets.

 

"No..." He tightened the fur folds. "P-please, no..."

 

`I'll whip the man who did this,' thought Edward, growling.

 

He had to get that name. But better not to cajole the lad. Instead the swordsman went into his goods chest and fetched out one of the spare shirts provided to him in Ravensborough. He tore off one of its sleeves, daubed it in the bucket's cold waters, then calmly asked James for permission to clean his face.

 

The whore nodded, his eyes adrift towards nothing.

 

Edward started with his lip. Gently. Blood dappled the sodden cotton strip until he rinsed it off in the bucket. When James' lips were clean then Ed mopped the blood from his cheeks and neck. That was when he noticed the brown bruises along his collarbone. The bite marks. The scratches. It was the work of more than one person.

 

"This... should not have happened to you." Said Edward.

 

James kept silent.

 

Edward checked his arms. More bruises. More cuts. But there was blood as well as dirt beneath his fingernails and bruising around his knuckles. The whore fought back. Edward drew up the bucket and brought James' hands into the water. It stung, and he winced, but he held them there until Edward scrubbed them clean.

 

"When this war is over... when justice returns to a better realm... I promise you that the perpetrators of this will be punished."

 

James looked at him, blankly. "...Do you think... the men who did this to me... want a `better realm'...?"

 

Silence.

 

And then the morning horn sounded across the entire camp. Daybreak. Edward eyed the gaps between the grass and the tenting and saw sunlight seep through. A great clatter rose up around them, tent by tent, as the men of Edith's Army awoke to the new day.

 

Edward turned back to James. All the blood was cleansed from his skin and what cuts continuing to weep he bound up with more shorn strips of cotton. There was some wine by his pallet (the half-drunk cup Larkyn poured for him at the command tent) Edward bade James drink it to settle his nerves. He did so. It seemed to help.

 

"That horn's the call to rise," Edward stood up, gathered his sword, sallet, harness and boots. "I'll have to go. Stay here for now. This is my tent, no one will intrude, no one will hurt you. Once the parley at Gigod's Rock is concluded I'll ride back to check on you. I'll bring some food with me."

 

Silence.

 

Sighing, Ed dressed himself for the day. Slipped his feet into his boots. Fitted his sword belt to his waist. Strapped himself inside his harness. Pulled on his sallet. Laced up his boiled leather bracers. He turned to leave.

 

"...Wait..."

 

Edward paused at the flap of the tent, longsword swinging at his side. He cast a glance over his shoulder. James, beaten and abused, gave him a tearful smile.

 

"...Thank you..."

 

**********

 

The Whelping Bitch, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

56^th of Autumn, 801

 

When Francis Gray awoke, eyes fluttering open as his limbs and torso lay tangled in sheets soggy with sweat and spit and seed... he found himself alone in that bed. He pulled himself free. He sighed. His head was pounding. Was there something in the wine? He leaned up and looked around. The candles were at half-wick. The wine ewer was empty. Most of the oysters were still there. But the southlander was gone. And for the life of him Fran was pleased for it. How could he face that poor man after what he made him do?

 

Across the floor his clothes lay in tatters. At the foot of the bed though, a fresh tunic and hose were left for him. And then Lady Cecily unbolted her door, swathed in night linens, stretching out her limbs and luxuriating with the blessed afterglow of a well-needed tup.

 

She giggled and grinned as she caught sight of Fran's ripped clothing. "I could hear you through the walls, my little Lost Lord of Gead. Sounds like you had an even better night than I did."

 

`This was...' Fran's lips finished the thought. "...a mistake."

 

Cecily sneered at him. "Mistakes don't beg for more... as I recall you did, eventually."

 

Silence. Fran wanted her to leave so he could get dressed, but instead of leaving she seated herself on the lower edge of the bed. She balanced a cup in her hands. It bloomed with steam.

 

She noticed him staring at it. "Oh this? Tea of Silphium. This is The Whelping Bitch, after all. And bitches beget bastards."

 

He looked on, quizzically, not understanding.

 

"Oh, you sweet child. Let us simply say it cleanses a woman of any unwanted surprises. You wouldn't expect me to carry some half-black by-blow to court, would you?" She swallowed another sip of tea. "Saints forbid."

 

`You're disgusting...' Thought Fran. `Why did I ever agree to come here? To do this?'

 

"Oh, please. Stop it."

 

Fran frowned. "Stop what?"

 

Cecily frowned back. "Your dirty looks. This pathetic attempt to cling to some semblance of good in yourself. Save it for the mudwits, Fran. You're no better than I. You have chosen what you need to fill your emptiness with – it's power. And bending lesser men to your will is power incarnate."

 

He looked away.

 

"Drop your guilt," said she. "The Phantoma will sweep it all away, eventually."

 

"There will be no Phantoma."

 

"No, I imagine not. Not this time." Lady Cecily calmly finished her tea. "...Why else would his grace the Duke of Greyford summon you to Staunton Castle the same day he summoned the Master of Augmentations? Hm! One can only guess..."

 

**********

 

Gigod's Forest, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland

56^th of Autumn, 801

 

In the histories of Morland it is said that Gigod, high chieftain of the Belbei, the most powerful tribe between the Rivers Tuyn and Wyfferen, was the last of the middle tribesmen to bend the knee in submission to Edwulf the Great. In the wake of his defeat, the proud chieftain came down from his hillfort stronghold of Grauforda to meet with Edwulf at the heart of his forest, his prized hunting grounds, where the last of the golden harts dwelt. They hunted together. And with Edwulf's enchanted bow, Heart-Reaver, they felled and carved the beast. To symbolize his newfound allegiance, Gigod bequeathed the golden hide to Edwulf, swearing to help bend the other tribes to his will so long as the forest remained his inheritance. And so, their compact formed, the stoneworkers of the Belbei raised a massive megalith to commemorate the day – Gigod's Rock.

 

Edward found himself reciting the story from saddleback.

 

"Surely you don't believe in all that shite, do you?" Something buzzing flew into Harry Hotfoot's ear. He dug it out dead with a little finger, wincing. "Enchanted bows? Golden harts?"

 

The swordsman threw a glance at Edith. She rode at the van of her personal guard, 200 troops, beneath her flocking banner, the quartered sigils of Houses Wulfsson and Oswyke, the last two royal bloodlines traceable all the way back through the tides of history to the first king of Morland, Edwulf the Great. Gigod's Forest was a gigantic sprawl of woodland, largely reserved for hunting by House Drakewell – Gigod's supposed descendants. And now here she rode, her son and heir close behind, walking the old conqueror's path south 800 years later. It was impossible not to see the parallels – the echoes of history, its great rhythms reverberating.

 

"Providence plays its hand in all," Quoted Edward. "Or at the very least that was what Stillingford believed. A golden hart does not seem so farfetched. Not in the face of that."

 

Harry chuckled, but more to himself. His harness rattled with him as he rocked to and fro upon the saddle, his shoulders swallowed up by a russet cloak, much like Edward's. "It all sounds like pigs bollocks to me. I don't put any stock in old wives' tales and fairy stories. All I see is the right one to lead."

 

Edward watched her from forty paces behind, hand gripped about his horse's reins. The forest oaks were twice as tall as their tallest man, towering and ancient, blotting out what little light the pale morning sun provided in all but a few scant beams tracing down to the duff that crunched beneath their horses' hooves. Conjoined darkness and light cascaded over her.

 

Edith the Exile.

 

Her armour shimmered in the gloam. Her braided locks of flame red hair flittered in the wind. She had Larkyn at her side. She gave him an apple, which he fed to his horse, receiving a little neigh and giddy swish of the tail as thanks. And they smiled at each other. Mother and son.

 

`How did we not know?' Thought Ed. But let that come later. There were other matters to attend to. "What of the scouts?"

 

Harry frowned. "They never returned. Some of the guards on post at the forest's rim said they heard wolves overnight. I don't want to think the worst, but..."

 

Edward thought of James. "How many were sent out?"

 

"Ten riders, I believe."

 

"It should've been fifty," said Ed. "We've been lax ever since we arrived at Greyford. A camp follower was beaten into plum flesh last night, Harry. Did you hear anything about it?"

 

He shook his head. "No. It's funny though. Shepherd Godwyn warned against the presence of ale and whores, but Edith said it would be bad for morale to forbid them."

 

`I'll have to talk with her,' thought Edward. `And I'll have those names once this is over.'

 

They were drawing close to Gigod's Rock. Although he never saw it before or frequented these woodlands, Edward could tell by the way the highway widened, enough to fit ten horses side by side, the width of a racetrack. It was a simple beaten path pounded into dust but well-trodden, which suited them.

 

Only this small host of 200 mounted swordsmen and spearmen would accompany Edith to the coming summit with the Wallish forces, the remainder of the army would abide at camp. If nothing else it would give the rear guard and overburdened baggage train time to catch up to them. Once the two halves of Edith's army were rejoined, then it was onward to Dragonspur.

 

"HOLD!" Came the shout.

 

All the horsemen of the van tugged back the leather reins of their steeds, bringing them all to a halt. Each line of riders passed the call back to the rear of the train, back and back until the pounding dirge of cantering hoofbeats slowly dissipated. The soldiers muttered amongst themselves atop their whickering horses, clouds of breath rising into the chill air, wondering what the delay was.

 

The Hotfoot turned to the captain of the guard. "Shall we?"

 

A nod.

 

Edward and Harry guided their horses out of the column and snapped at the reins to gallop ahead to Edith's position at the van. Two horsed spearmen flanked her and Larkyn whilst five more took up their rear. Behind them a second armed guard surrounded Shepherd Godwyn's tasselled palanquin. The aging hedge monk poked his hooded head out of the black curtains to see what was going on.

 

The path ahead was blocked.

 

Six or seven of those towering, 15-foot oaks girding the road had somehow toppled at the roots, tipping over and crashing into each other, piling up into a blockage that would take hours to clear.

 

"Blood of the fucking saints," Cursed Edith. She looked about the forest trail, but the woodland thicket was far too dense to ride through.

 

Edward sighed. "It'll take hours to cut through all that..."

 

"Then we better get started," The Red Princess circled her horse around to address the men of the van. "GET YOUR BILLS READY, LADS! WE'VE GOT-"

 

She stopped herself.

 

Eyes widening.

 

Edward and Harry, immediately alarmed, turned their horses about to spy what she spied. And then they saw it through the gaps between the foliage, rising above the forest canopy into the dense and mottled grey clouds, some two or more miles behind them.

 

Smoke.

 

A gigantic black column of it floating upward like a plume, roiling over inside itself and speckled with flecks of fuming flame, branching out into the sky, blackening everything in its path, raining ash and sparks across Gigod's Forest to light smaller counter fires throughout the bone-dry tinder of the forest floor. And then he, and everyone else, began to hear a sound they hadn't heard since Brookweald. Cannon fire.

 

"Oh no..." Edward's heart sank. "THE CAMP!"

 

And then came the call from amongst their ranks, a rising shout bouncing from the tree trunks and reverberating until the entire column felt its terror – "ARCHERS!!"

 

The bushes and brush surrounding the riding path, obscuring the narrow gaps between tree trunks, exploded like the banks of a bloated river, flooding the clearing with a hail of blistering arrow fire. Roars of agony burst out into all directions as the arrows whistled forth and plucked out eyes, tore through eardrums, punched through throats, ripped off fingers, sliced through scalps and cracked through noses. Horses whinnied their death throes, shot through their muzzles and gaskins and loins and jugulars until they bucked and toppled over, crushing their riders screaming into bloody, broken heaps.

 

Edward was thrown from his saddle. He landed with a skid into the leafy dirt, stray arrows snapping beneath the steel of his harness, his horse triple-shot through the neck and colliding with a tree before sliding down its blood-soaked bark, hooves kicking into a slow deathly stop. Screams and whistles and shouts and crashes filled Ed's ears until they almost burst. The whistling arrows, the whistling arrows, the whistling arrows... until the barrage came to a stop. A sudden breath. Space. Thought. Thoughts. Thoughts mingling.

 

`Open your eyes...!' He thought. `Open your fucking eyes!'

 

He saw blood.

 

His or his horse's he could not say. And then he scrubbed his eyes clean.

 

`Edith,' he thought. `Saints alive, where is Edith?'

 

But no sparkle of silvery armour found he as he looked about the chaos, the fallen horses, the stumbled men lying in arrow-shot agony, the blood pools, the scrags of human flesh torn, an ear here, a finger there. Get up. His leg was arrow-shot. He felt it then. Suddenly. A searing, flaming pain like a kiss of fire. Get up!

 

Shaking fingers fumbled for the arrow shaft, to stanch the bleeding, to scrabble at the sting, as if to cleave it from himself. GET UP, EDWARD BARDSHAW! And he screamed at himself as he heard other men scream. Men, launching out of the bushes and drawing their basket-hilted swords and charging down the slope toward the haggard remnants of the attacked party.

 

And then he got up.

 

His left leg seared. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand on it. A slurp of steel. His furious steel, drawn. Eyes up. Eyes up! Searching. Edith. No. Not the steel armour. The boy. The boy! THE KING! A man came at him. Wallish. Loud. Screaming. He swung. He felt his body dip with the flow of his rushing blood and let sail the alien steel over his sallet `til he drove his sword through the bastard's naked throat, life's blood spurting like a fountain down his wrist until his wrists threw off the Wallish corpse. And then he caught his breath.

 

The boy! The boy! Larkyn! His sight swung around him, saw the steel clashing against steel, the maimed monk crawling towards the bushes with an arrow lodged in his shoulder, the silver warrior cleaving her way through her foes, one man down, and then the next, and then the next. And then he saw. The boy. Fallen. The boy. Screaming soundlessly, wordlessly. The boy. Ed rushed to him, cut two men down to get to him, and then a horse came. The Hotfoot, the fucking Hotfoot, saints bless that fucking, japing Hotfoot!

 

"EDWARD!" He screamed. "GET EDITH AND FOLLOW!"

 

He had Larkyn in his arms. He threw the boy on the horse's rear. "Get him to safety..." Ed meant to shout but his voice was so soft. So quiet. So tranquil. Falling. Was he falling? No. He stumbled. He stumbled and he caught himself. "...Save him..."

 

"GET EDITH!" Said Harry, again. "TAKE THAT HORSE!"

 

`He's her son...' Thought Edward. "HE'S HER SON!" Screamed Edward. "GO HARRY, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, GO!"

 

A slap. The horse's rear. Harry gripped the reins. The horse bolted. Larkyn held on for dear life. Edward smiled. And then Edward turned to the screaming Wallishmen flowing out of the bushes, darting through the trees, peaking up from their pavises, nocking their arrows, firing their arquebuses, swarming in every direction, until...

 

"ENOUGH!" Bellowed the Exile. "ENOUGH!"

 

Thundercracks ebbed. Wallishmen shouted a halt. Steel ceased its songs. The men drew back. Both sides. Theirs, shorn to the bone, barely thirty men left standing. All of them surrounded.

 

Outnumbered.

 

Edward held his sword, his thigh shot through, bleeding, his ears shrieking with tinnitus, edging closer and closer by fraught footstep to his silver commander. But the commander could see what he could not see. Men. Her men. Dead. Dying. Wounded. Not a single man un-shot or unbloodied.

 

Edith.

 

Edith the Exile.

 

She looked to him and he to her. Both breathless. Both worn. Their spirits? Blazing. Their flesh? Weak. Weakened. Weakening.

 

Enough.

 

The sword fell from the Red Princess' hand.

 

"Enough..." She spoke. She took a knee. "...Enough..."

 

Stunned, huffing glances passed along the ranks of Edith's depleted guard. But the command was heeded. A dozen swords fell from gloved or gauntleted hands. Bills followed. Spears followed. Bows followed. A rattling collective, falling from their hands to the leafy grass beneath their feet, riven with the blood and corpses of their fallen allies.

 

And then Edward.

 

He looked at the bloodstained sword in his gloved hand. He looked at the Wallish soldiers about him, hundreds of steel-plated souls, their plumed morions and half-cloaks flickering through wind. And then saw what Edith saw.

 

It was over.

 

*

 

Fires spread in the distance. Boughs juddered as birds flapped their nests for escape. The dead were dragged from the trail and heaped about the bushes – horse and man. Body after body, corpse after corpse. Flies buzzing. And the living? The victors stripped the living of their sallets, their harnesses, and all their padded jacks. They bound the living with rope and chain and lined them up along the bloodied undergrowth by the dozens. Edith and Edward were amongst them.

 

The victors, the Wallish soldiers, prowled the narrow killing field collecting loot – weapons, armour, their pick of surviving horses. Most were bundled away upon horse-drawn baggage carts that found their way once the fallen tree trunks were cleared.

 

Edward Bardshaw, dirtied and bloodstained, his hands and feet bound with irons, watched them all through narrowed eyes. Silently. Watched the feather-plumes of Wallish men-at-arms bounce around from horseback as they directed their archers to collect stray arrows and summoned captains from other contingents to give them their reports.

 

Beyond the forest, from the direction of the camp, the distant roars of battle – if you could call it that – had ebbed and died. No more cries. No more cannon fire. No more powder shot. No more arrow whistles.

 

An honourless ambush worked to perfection.

 

Edward watched, bitterly, as a duo of pilfered horses rode up from the camp-ward side of the dirt path, flanked by a guard of twenty halberdiers bearing the sigil of the White Ravens. The horsemen drew up and dismounted. Ser John Lolland was one. Charl Brance was the other.

 

`Damn you...' Thought Edward. `You fucking traitor...!'

 

The traitor and the loyalist convened with one of the men-at-arms, exchanging smirks and reports. But it was the Commander of the Wallishmen who insinuated himself before a dejected Edith. He clunked up to her in full and pristine plate, pulling off his plumed steel helm for a triumphant smirk. His metal fingers cupped Edith's blood-mottled chin.

 

"Worry not, my lambling," said he, accented. "I promise you safe conduct until you are brought before the Lord Regent."

 

Edith spat in his face.

 

He only chuckled at her, thumbing away the phlegm. "You Morish mares have quite the buck. No matter. Our work here is done."

 

Traitors...

 

"Who gave you the order?" Barked Edward. "Who?!"

 

He knew. Edith knew. But still. He had to hear it. The name. That fucking name. The Wallish Commander turned to him in a sweep of clanking steel and groaning leather straps, helm tucked safely beneath his arm. Edward watched him think a moment before cutting another yellow-toothed smile. There was no harm in parleying with the condemned. Nothing said now would change their captives' fate.

 

"Who gave the order?" Re-said the Wallishman. "How it boots you to know I know not, but we serve at the pleasure of the Honourable Viscount of Thormont, Lord Francis Gray."

 

**********

 

·        Thanks again for reading everybody! Stay tuned for more. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com .

 

·        Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).