An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 16

Twyver, Barony of Greenwood, River Mark

Baron Inworth rode through the crowded city streets as more of his people took what little belongings they had to run south, before the inevitable invasion began. Inworth wished he could tell his people he could protect them. Keep them safe.

But that would be a lie. He’d seen the enemy forces from the top of the keep himself and knew that today was the day. There was little comfort he would be able to bring them.

The sun had barely risen, casting a pale light over the Greenwood behind him and the Thunderhorn river ahead. Across the eastbridge was a sea of banners: Langmere, Ambleton, Penleigh, among the dozen from Kingsheart. Even a scattering of banners from the distant Icelands. It was a grim sight.

“Is this it, my lord?” One of his knights asked as he rode up to his forces.

“It is. They were waiting on that last group, the one that came in the night under Stonehill’s banner. They’re ready now. We have maybe thirty minutes before they attempt the bridge.”

The knight looked at the men assembled at this end of the bridge, and then across at the sea of invaders, waiting to begin their march across the long stone bridge. Inworth could see his thoughts but let him speak them.

“It’s a strong position, but... if they press hard, we won’t have the numbers to hold.”

“I know, but we will make them pay for it. Greenwood’s men don’t run from a fight, and today will be no different. We make our stand here, on the bridge. They’ll try to break us, but this river will run red before they push us off.”

“Yes, my lord,” the knight said, ducking his head in a slight bow.

They were good men who’d served Inworth well, but he could feel their fear. Their anxiety.

His men were as prepared as they could be, so they waited. Waited and watched the enemy assembling. And then the horns sounded on the other end of the bridge.

The thunderous march of the king’s forces came into view, a wall of steel and banners advancing from the north. The green and gold banners of Langmere fluttered next to the crimson of Tansley and the stark black of Penleigh.

“Archers ready!” Inworth commanded as they stepped onto the bridge, spreading out to cover it like a sea of insects.

Archers, who’d been standing ready for hours, pulled back arrows that had been strung, waiting to be used. Inworth drew his sword, holding it high above him before bringing it slashing down, causing the release of hundreds of arrows, arching high into the air, crossing the span of the river and the bridge over it, falling on the advancing troops.

Shields were raised hastily, and the first volley claimed few victims, with the front ranks made up of knights and well-armored men-at-arms, steel protecting the men from the falling missiles. But it slowed their advance, bunching them up at the bridge’s entrance.

“Again!” Inworth called. “Aim for the next line, for the conscripts! Let them feel our steel!”

Another wave of arrows flew. This time, their trajectory was further back, focused on the next mass of men, the bulk of the troops wearing padded jerkins or light leather for protection. Men fell screaming, clutching at feathered shafts protruding from arms, legs, and faces.

Disorder spread through the enemy ranks as the conscripts tried to pull back, hampering the advance of the bulk of the knights behind them. Inworth allowed himself a grim smile. They had drawn first blood, but the real test was yet to come.

“Hold steady!” he shouted to his men. “Make every arrow count!”

The enemy commanders rallied their troops, forcing the advance to continue. Knights pushed forward, their heavy armor turning aside most of the arrows that reached them. Behind their shield wall, the conscripts followed, driven forward by the press of bodies behind them and the lashes of their officers.

As the vanguard of the enemy host reached the midpoint of the bridge, Inworth felt a trickle of sweat run down his back, borne by worry and not the stifling armor he wore. The real battle was about to begin, and the fate of Greenwood, perhaps of all River Mark, would be decided in the next few hours.

“Swords! Shields!” he called. “Stand ready!”

Inworth’s men formed a shield wall partway up the narrow bridge, stacked deep for when the first line fell. Toward them came the dismounted knights of Swanstock and Tansley, armored and well-trained. Inworth had some knights among his ranks, but most had traveled west to Lynese. Most of the men in his ranks were men-at-arms and even farmers, hastily taking up the sword for defense of their land and homes.

They were brave men but outmatched. Inworth held little hope that his people would survive this day.

“Hold!” Inworth shouted as the screaming men closed the distance.

The impact sent shockwaves through the defenders’ line. Men grunted and cursed as they struggled to hold their ground. Swords slashed and hammers swung, men hemmed in by the confines of the bridge, unable to dodge or move more than a step.

Sir Donnel, one of the few Greenwood knights still in River Mark, cleaved through an enemy soldier’s helmet with a mighty blow, sending the man’s body back into his fellows.

“For Greenwood!” he cried, lifting his mighty sword.

But for every foe they felled, two more seemed to take their place. The press of bodies was suffocating, the din of battle deafening. Inworth fought beside his men, cutting down a Tansley man-at-arms.

“My lord!” a young squire shouted. “There’s pushing…”

The boy didn’t finish his sentence, a sword exploding through his chest as he was stabbed lean through, a look of shock and pain etched on his face. Inworth saw what the poor young man was warning of. The left side of the bridge was starting to be pushed back, causing his line to become unbalanced. Too far forward on the right, too far back on the left, allowing more of the men in contact with his own line.

“Shore up that line! Archers, focus fire on their left!”

A hail of arrows rained down into the rear of the enemy line, trying to create a gap in it, buying precious moments for Inworth’s men to close ranks. It worked to some degree, but the reprieve was short-lived. Arrows were not going to stop the horde facing them. The knights of Swanstock, led by a hulking brute in black armor, smashed into their center with renewed fury.

“Hold, damn you!” Inworth snarled, parrying a vicious sword thrust. “Hold the line!”

The stone bridge was becoming slick with spilled blood. Men slipped and fell, only to be trampled by friend and foe alike. As the battle raged on, Inworth could feel his men’s resolve wavering. They were outnumbered and outmatched, facing some of the finest knights in the kingdom. With a sinking heart, he realized they couldn’t hold much longer.

“My lord!” Sir Donnel shouted, his face streaked with blood and grime, a large gash in one cheek and red seeping between the plates of his armor. “We can’t hold them! We need to fall back!”

Inworth gritted his teeth, loath to give ground but knowing the cold truth of it.

“Signal the men to move to second positions,” Inworth ordered one of the squires behind him.

The second position was the city itself, and if they were fighting in the street, the battle was all but done. The enemy could spread out throughout the city, use their numbers to overwhelm him. But he had no choice. His line was falling, and to continue here would be to have his men swarmed, unable to take any of the enemy with them.

Horns blared, and his men began to fall back. Many made it to pre-barricaded positions, ready to keep the fight going. Inworth and his knights began their retreat to the central keep. The Gallows March men and the men from Rothpale may be able to fight south of the city, from the forest that lined either side of the east road, but he would go no further. He would hold in his city and make the enemy take it from him, paying the blood price for their victory.

Inworth and his men fell back into the city, as Sir Donnell and a selection of knights tried to hold the bridge for as long as they could. Paying for time with their lives.

“Harwin, take your men down to Tanner’s Row, man the barricades there as long as you can. If you must abandon the city, go to the greenwood. You have several of our woodsmen with you who can direct you. Finnian, take your men to Church lane.”

“And retreat to the Thameholt woods if we must?” Sir Finnian asked.

“Most of it is in Rothpale, after all. Guard your barony and confound them as much as you can.”

“Good luck, my lord,” the man said, clasping forearms with him for a moment.

Inworth didn’t know him well, but the man had led the Rothpale forces for Baron Throckmorton, who had never been a man of arms himself.

“To both of us.”

And with that, he was gone. Inworth hoped both men did as best as they could. He had his own difficulties to focus on. The keep was built on the East Road as it passed through Twyver, with the locals calling it High Street, as it headed up a small hill to the rise at the center of town.

Fires had started to burn, buildings set alight close to the bridge. The enemy had broken loose, and was destroying as they came, as armies were want to do. The air was becoming thick with the screams of the few people who remained between, the shouts of men who continued to retreat.

Inworth was holding the keep gates open, hoping he could retrieve some of the men before he shut them off and became surrounded. The first men that came through, however, were not his own. It was a group of Swanstock men, their armor dented and bloodied, who came charging up High Street.

They weren’t going to get the doors shut in time.

“Here they come!” Inworth said, waving forward what soldiers he had left with him.

They hit the armored knights head on. Inworth waded into the fray, cutting down one of the Swanstock men. He could see a few of his people from the bridge running back toward them, being chased by a horde of king’s men.

“Archers!” He called out to the archers, most of whom were unmolested from the battle at the bridge, and who’d moved to man the walls of the keep.

Once the doors were closed, they would be the ones to keep the enemy back, but right now, he needed them to buy his retreating men breathing room. There were only maybe thirty men running for the safety of the keep, but he had so few that thirty could make the difference.

As he and the men with him fought off the last of the Swanstock men, who they had outnumbered, his archers began laying down a thick rain of fire on the pursuers. Enough that the crown loyalists slowed enough to give his men space. As they reached him, they smashed into the rear of the Swanstock men, finishing them off quickly. Only one of the knights managed to break free and run for his fellows.

Inworth let him go. “To the keep. Now. Start shutting the gates.”

Arrows continued to rain down past them as they ran, working as a wall to keep the enemy back from them. His men were already pushing the large gates closed as they ran through the doors, slamming them closed and lowering the large crossbeam over them, blocking the door.

More men were bringing up additional plants, to further brace the door, making them more resistant to breaking open. As he watched his men work, proud of them for knowing what needed to be done, a messenger from the wyvernry came running out of the keep toward him.

“My lord, Runner from Sir Donnel, they are being overrun and are pulling back from the city,” the message said.

“Send a Wyver to Sir Finnian, tell him to retreat too. If he stays, he’s going to get overrun. And send a wyvern to Duke Aldric.”

“Saying what, my lord?”

“Tell him Twyver has fallen. The king’s men are across the bridge.

***

Starhaven, Sidor

Edmund was still pulling on his surcoat as he came hurrying out of the palace. The damned nobles always wanted to make a spectacle, demand audiences at the last moment. Normally he’d ignore them. He was king now, and people would meet with him on his schedule, when he was ready.

This was perhaps the only exception. Isaac Cadogan, Duke of the Icelands, was one of the few that he had no choice but to meet. He just wished someone had sent notice before the Ice Lord stepped onto the docks, so he could have put together a proper welcome. With many of his own barons digging their heels and two of the baronies in open rebellion, he needed as many people as he could, and even the humblest farmer in the Icelands spent as much time with an axe in his hands as a hoe or shovel.

They had sent some soldiers at Edmund’s request, but only a pittance. While the Icelands was the second least populated province, behind Shadowhold, Edmund knew they had the largest numbers of conscription age men available in the kingdom, having sent almost none to the armies in Lynese.

Cadogan was the one man he needed to woo, if such a thing was possible with such a disagreeable man.

The massive duke was already halfway through the nobles’ quarter when Edmund got outside, looking out of place in his thick fur cloak that was out of place in Starhaven’s warmer climes.

“Duke Cadogan,” Edmund said, extending his hand as the man got to him. “It’s a pleasure to see you. I hadn’t expected to see you this far south of the snowline.”

“We will see if it’s pleasurable or not. Do you have anything to drink or is hospitality unknown in the south?”

Edmund repressed a grimace. The man was born without social graces. Unfortunately, the northerners saw that as a benefit and not a detraction, and he had their loyalty as much as Aldric had the loyalty of his barons.

“I certainly do. Follow me to my study,” Edmund said, and turned toward the palace, leading the way through the palace corridors and up to the king’s private offices.

His offices now.

The study had changed dramatically since Serwyn’s death. Gone were the weapons of war and souvenirs of battles fought by someone else. In their place stood bookcases with row after row of precious books, some dating back to the formation of the kingdom, along with display cases containing ancient artifacts from the royal vaults.

The room commanded respect now, as Edmund intended.

“Please, sit.” Edmund gestured to a chair before settling behind his desk. “What brings the Bear of the North so far from his den?”

Cadogan remained standing, his massive frame dwarfing the furniture. “I’ve come to negotiate the terms of the Icelands’ continued support in your war against Sinclair and the rebels.”

“Negotiate? The Icelands swore fealty to the crown. Supporting your king isn’t a matter for negotiation, it’s your sworn duty.”

A harsh laugh escaped Cadogan’s throat. “Come now, Your Majesty. You’re not that naive. We no longer have a boy king to coddle with pretty lies about duty and fealty. If that’s the stance you wish to take, I’ll return north tomorrow, and my men with me.”

Edmund’s face darkened, but he bit back the response he wanted to give. He had no doubt Cadogan was serious.

“You’re right, Lord Cadogan. I’m not Serwyn, playing at kingship, but neither are you one of the haughty barons, always dancing around what they have to say, speaking in riddles. Your people have a hard-earned reputation for being blunt and direct, so now is not the time to dance around your words. If you have specific requests, make them.”

Edmund gestured at the chair again. Cadogan finally sat, the chair groaning under his weight.

“Your brother and father waged a long campaign to put the Icelands under their thumb. They stripped away the autonomy we had won centuries ago and killed many of my people.

“The crown must maintain order throughout the realm.”

“Order,” he repeated sarcastically. “My people have ruled the lands north of the Grimshaw since before your family sat on the throne. We rallied to the king’s call when needed, paid our taxes, and in return governed ourselves. Your father decided he wanted more and had your brothers see an end to those days when they trapped my father on Winterfang Isle and killed him twenty years past.”

“I argued against that,” Edmund said. “But it’s ancient history. You should be more concerned about the difficulties of the present.”

“The present is simple enough. If you want the full support of the North, restore our autonomy. Let us manage our own affairs. We’ll pay your taxes, provide troops when called, but those troops serve under Iceland nobles, not southron lords who look down their noses at us. I will not have your dandies treat my men as common rabble.”

“Why should I grant the Icelands what I deny Iron Keep? Garris Sinclair demands the same autonomy you seek.”

“We are not Iron Keep miners or River Mark farmers or Kingsheart merchants. My people carve life from frozen earth with bloody hands. We are a hard people, shaped by harder lands,” he said, leaning forward his massive frame. “Garris wants his own crown. We have no such ambitions. Grant us our historical rights, and you’ll have loyal vassals who’ll bleed for you when called. Deny us, and ...”

He trailed off, shrugging, letting the threat of the ‘or else’ remain unsaid.

Edmund didn’t answer right away. Instead, he rose from his desk and walked to the window, the one he’d always admired when Gavric had the office... and envied when Serywn had it.

The duke wasn’t wrong. His people were different, everyone in Sidor knew it. They had their own ways, their own traditions. They were stubborn and difficult. But there were a fair number of them, men his forces desperately needed to fight a war in two directions. Toward River Mark and Iron Keep simultaneously.

Two duchies had already rallied behind Sinclair’s banner, and Shadowhold was bound to join them eventually. Edmund could not afford to lose more.

“The eastern barons grow restless,” Edmund said, not turning back to face Cadogan. “I can smell their hopes that things will change and they can turn their allegiance back to Sinclair. I am certain that if things turn against us, they’ll flock to him without hesitation.”

“All the more reason to agree to our conditions.”

“I don’t just want a few of your men. For what you’re asking, I need the full might of the Icelands behind us.”

“You’ll have it.”

“Then I agree. If your people help me win this war,” Edmund said, turning back to the duke finally. “Then I’ll see that you get what you want. Autonomy for the Icelands.”

“And my men? Serving under their own nobles?”

“That too. Your men will fight under their own lords, and you’ll have command over them, as it was before, because I want you and your forces to focus on Sinclair while I deal with my brother. I want you to ensure that Sinclair never gets the chance to march south unchallenged.”

“I can agree to that.”

“Then ride home. Assemble your men and begin the march. The longer you wait, the greater the chance Garis breaks into Kingsheart and ends this war early. And I guarantee he will not offer you the same terms I am.”

“That won’t happen,” Cadogan said, rising from the chair that was threatening to shatter, sticking out his hand. “You have my word on it, Your Majesty.”

“Good,” Edmund said, smiling for the first time since the duke arrived.

Your Majesty. He never tired of hearing that.