An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 7

Ebbwater, Dunwic’s Reach, Kingsheart

Tom Fletcher heaved another log from the cart, his muscles straining under the weight. He tossed it on the pile with the other logs, the sound loud and echoey in the empty woodshed. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold evening air, a testament to the hours he’d spent catching up on work.

He paused, straightening his back and wiping his forehead with a calloused hand. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, the purple and blues of twilight all but faded into black. In the distance, raucous laughter drifted from the direction of the inn, where men spent their day’s hard-earned coin on ale and companionship.

“Ought to be getting home,” Tom muttered to himself, thinking of his wife.

She’d been on edge ever since he’d returned from the rebellion, she’d been wary of every shadow and loud sound, as if she expected danger to leap out at any moment. He’d tried to reassure her, but the last year had aged her. Worry lines that had not been there the previous winter were now firmly etched into her face.

She’d relax eventually. He hated that he’d put her through this, but it had been the right thing to do. He’d actually done it as much for her as anyone else. But it was all done now. The rebellion was over and the people had returned to their homes. The king had accepted their terms and many of the barons had thrown their support behind him, which had to make it harder for the king to come after him now. He knew Duke Aldric had remained silent, his support secret for now, and understood why, but enough nobles had spoken out to guarantee his and everyone else involved safety.

Peace, or at least something close to it, had settled over the kingdom again. He was just Tom the woodcutter again. No more, no less. The fact that he was here alone, long after the other workers had gone home, was proof enough of how thoroughly he’d been forgotten. No one waited to hear tales of his exploits or buy him a drink anymore. He was just Tom, and he had a lot of work to do.

He had picked up the rear end of a log from his cart and was about to heft it up when a soft thud near the front of the shed drew his attention. He set down the log he had been about to stack and wiped his hands on his breeches.

“Dalson?” Tom called out, taking a few steps toward the front of the shed.

He thought he had seen the man ahead of him when he had come back in, but there had been no sign of him when Tom had arrived and his cart was empty, sitting in the spot where he always left it, so Tom had just thought he had beaten him here. But maybe he had taken a different cart today.

Tom was just at the front of the shed when a figure emerged from the shadows, a curved knife reflecting a bit of torchlight. Tom’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the man’s cruel, hawk-like features. He had a cruel look about him that jogged something in the back of Tom’s mind. Something about the man was familiar.

Not that it mattered. The knife made his intentions clear. Although brigands coming for a lumber shed made no sense. Yes, it was on the edge of the village, but there was nothing of value here, unless they were wanting to carry some lumber away, which seemed more work than it was worth.

Tom took an instinctive step backward. Whoever they were, they were dangerous. He turned to flee out the rear of the shed and get help, when more men materialized, blocking his escape route. He was trapped.

His eyes darted to the woodpile where his axe lay, frustratingly out of reach.

The hawk-faced man’s lips curled into a sneer. “Thomas Fletcher. Did you truly believe your actions would go unpunished?”

“Who are you?” Tom demanded, tensing up.

“The king’s justice, Fletcher. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Tom’s mouth went dry.

He lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t know what this is about. The rebellion’s over. I’ve done nothing since then but cut wood and mind my business.”

A harsh laugh escaped the hawk-faced man. “Rebellion against the king isn’t so easily forgiven, Fletcher.”

“Have you come to arrest me, then?”

“Do we look like bailiffs? The price for your treason is far steeper than rotting in a dungeon.”

The man took a step toward him, the threat clear. There was no talking his way out of this. Tom lunged for his axe, desperation lending him speed. One of the men, who had been creeping behind him, reached for it at the same moment. Their hands closed on the handle simultaneously.

They grappled, knocking into the cart hard as Tom tried to wrench the axe free, pulling both of them to the right, their struggle sending the cart of lumber crashing over. Logs thundered against the walls, the noise deafening in the enclosed space.

Tom was a strong man. A lifetime of felling trees had made him hardy. The man he faced was no weakling, to be sure. Wiry and cruel-looking, he was also half a head shorter than Tom, with significantly less bulk. Tom stopped trying to pull the axe away from him and reversed his force, which caught the man off guard, both of their efforts sending the axe back toward the man, driving the blunt end of the axe-head into his attacker’s face with a sickening crunch.

The man staggered back, blood streaming from his ruined nose. Tom’s moment of triumph was fleeting. White-hot agony erupted in his back as the hawk-faced man’s blade found its mark. Tom’s legs gave way. Feeling disappeared from his lower body, his legs giving out as if the strings holding him up were suddenly cut, sending him crumpling to the ground.

His fingers went numb. His arms. His limbs felt almost disconnected, as if they belonged to someone else.

Tom’s world narrowed as the feeling started to ebb out of him. He tried to move, to crawl, but his limbs refused to obey. Blood pooled beneath him, warm and sticky against the rough wooden planks.

Through blurred vision, he watched the hawk-faced man approach. The assassin’s boots stopped inches from Tom’s face as the man leaned over him. His features twisted into a cruel smile as he reached into his coat. Tom’s eyes struggled to focus as the man withdrew a folded piece of parchment.

“What...” Tom tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle escaped his lips.

“A parting gift from His Majesty. He wanted to ensure your... legacy was properly remembered,” the man said, kneeling next to him.

With deliberate care, he tucked the paper into Tom’s shirt pocket, adjusting it so a corner peeked out. What was happening? A message? A false confession? He had to know.

Tom summoned every ounce of strength left in his failing body. His arm twitched, fingers scraping uselessly against the wooden floor as he tried to reach for the pocket. But it was no use. His body was betraying him, slipping away.

The hawk-faced man stood, brushing off his hands. Tom’s thoughts turned to his wife, waiting at home. She’d be wondering where he was, probably pacing by the hearth. He imagined her face, lined with worry. He’d never see her again. Never hold her, never tell her how much he loved her.

The assassins began to file out. Tom could hear their muffled voices, but couldn’t make out the words. His world was growing dim, sounds becoming distant and muffled.

The hawk-faced man paused at the door, turning back, a satisfied smile on his face. Then he was gone, leaving Tom alone with the encroaching darkness.

And then it was silent.

***

Soriveau, Lynese

William was happy to be inside where it was warm and dry again, after two days in the saddle, clearing the remainder of the Avan forest and some of the plains just south. Although the ground was still white and the temperatures cold, the snows were melting, causing everything and anything used outside to quickly become damp and sodden.

He used to love this time when he was home, back in Starhaven, watching the roofs turn from white to dark tile again, but in the field, standing in snow and mud, it had lost much of its allure.

Still, things were going well. Pembroke had marched east and, between his forces and Sir Alistair’s, they controlled a line all the way to the mountains while William’s own forces had the forest to the Lysmir river, with everything north of that line clear of Lynesian soldiers and under their control.

If William had his druthers, he would march south on the capital now, and end this war. The Lynesians were weak. He had thousands of their soldiers under guard and thousands more were dead. They had men returning from the coast as the maw season came to an end, but that would not make up for their massive losses or being cut off from northern ports.

Now was the time to strike. Or at least it should have been.

Unfortunately, Pembroke had found reason to wait. They needed to bring in their ships to cut off Dawnstar Lake, preventing the city from resupplying across the water, but that could not be done until winter ended. Even this far north, the creatures released into the oceans prowled the sea, and many were slow to return to their birthplace as the maw closed. Which made Pembroke right once again, no matter how much William wanted to ignore him.

It could be worse, William supposed. They were on the northern coasts which got much less activity than the eastern side of the continent. The Leviathan Straits that separated Sidor and Lynese were nearly impassable year-round, haunted by monstrous creatures trapped when the Maw had closed too far to allow their return.

So he would wait. It was only two weeks or perhaps a month, depending on how the scout ships they sent out would fare. Then he could lay siege to the Lynesian capital and bring this war to its final, decisive end. William reached the door to the chambers holding their captured princess, which also happened to be her quarters prior to its capture, which was an oddity. Stopping for a moment to clear his head of the constant strategizing and plotting that came with the job, William nodded to the guard on post next to the door, then rapped his knuckles gently against the heavy wood.

“What?” came a harsh response from the other side of the door.

Inside, the princess sat at a simple desk, which was quite the contrast to the ornate furniture found in the rest of the Emperor’s vacation residence. Everything here, in fact, was nice but utilitarian, without the gilding or inlays normally preferred by much of the nobility.

William had the distinct impression that it had been at her insistence and found it endearing. She was in a state, wearing a simple dress, her hair slightly disheveled. He knew from the guards that she went out rarely, preferring to keep to herself in her quarters as much as possible.

Although she’d been allowed to be escorted down to the kitchens and ornate dining room for meals, she had told them she would eat in her rooms, like all prisoners do.

It was a touch of defiance which again was more endearing than annoying to William.

She’d had a quill in hand when he’d opened the door and a sheaf of paper in front of her, which she’d quickly tucked inside a tome that had sat next to it, obscuring it the moment he walked in.

“Happy Blessings Day, Princes. What are you writing?” William asked.

“It is not very happy, from where I am sitting, and nothing that concerns you.”

William repressed a smile. This was his first visit after ensuring she was safely tucked away in the imperial mansion and not likely to escape or be harmed. She’d been terrified the last time he’d seen her, and even then, her defiance had been notable.

Now that the immediate fear was over, the defiance, if anything, had increased. She had real backbone, which he found endearing. He didn’t know much about women, but he knew enough to know that showing pleasure at her anger would only set her off more.

Which was tempting in its own way. She was a beautiful girl, but the fire in her eyes, it was what really made her noticeable.

“If it’s a letter, I’d be happy to send a message to your father by wyvern. Though I’d need to inspect it first, of course.”

“I have no intention of writing to my father,” Isolde retorted, turning her back to him.

“So, how are you, princess? Do you have everything you need?”

Isolde whirled back to face him angrily. Apparently, a smile wasn’t the only thing that would set her off.

“What do you care? You keep me jailed like a common criminal, and now you want to know how I am?”

William looked around the chamber. The furniture was utilitarian, to be sure, but it wasn’t plain. The bed was soft, the chairs well-cushioned, a thick rug on the carpet to warm her feet, a fireplace on one wall making the entire room feel cozy.

“Foolish of me, you’re right. Still, this might be the most comfortable dungeon I’ve ever seen.”

“A cushioned chain is still a chain.”

William couldn’t hold in the laugh this time.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, before turning serious again. “I do apologize for the state of things. In any other time, I would have sent you home to your father at once. But, this is war.”

He raised his hands, shrugging his shoulders as if to say, ‘what am I to do.’ She stood up, furious. Jabbing a finger in his direction.

“Your war has killed thousands of my people!”

“It isn’t my war,” William said, not angrily. More as a matter of fact. “Your father has meddled in Sidorian politics for years. He’s paid Alchmaran raiders to burn our villages up and down the coast. We did not interfere with your country until your father forced our hand.”

“My people shouldn’t have to pay for what my father did.”

“Don’t be naive, Princess. The poor always pay for the actions of nobles. That’s how it’s always been.”

“It isn’t right.”

“No, probably not,” William agreed. “But it’s the way the world works. Wishing something weren’t so doesn’t fix anything. Only action does.”

Isolde said nothing, but a lot of the anger and defiance in her posture faded away. 

“I did appreciate your warning about the elder curse, you know,” William said, taking pity on her and breaking the silence. “I wish I’d heeded it better, rather than dismissing it as a ruse. But it helped us isolate the affliction quickly, preventing its spread. Your actions likely saved many of your people’s lives.”

“You would have been smarter to listen to me from the start. I had no reason to deceive you.”

William didn’t want to admit that he had believed her from the start, and he’d let his commanders talk him out of taking her warning seriously. He’d agreed to their recommendations, which made it his responsibility, ultimately.

“You’re right, although you should consider how much you would have trusted the warning of your enemy, even your enemy’s child. You’re father had already made a deal with us, in your name, I believe, to allow Disciples to cross our lines to help tend to your wounded, only to have his knights take the place of those disciples nad ambush our people. It made it harder to trust any Lynesian promises in the future.”

The look that played across her face was complicated. Anger, disappointment, resentment. Although why and directed at who, he did not know.

“I do realize, especially after the second warning came much more clandestinely and turned out to be true, that you probably had no hand in the deception. I applaud the effort to try and find a new way to stop unneeded deaths after you knew your father could not be trusted. It is clear how important your people slives are to you and I hope when this war ends, you will have a success in helping your people recover.”

“If you truly appreciated how important my peoples lives were, you’d release me and the survivors from your massacre.”

“I can’t do that, Princess. But as soon as it’s safe, I will arrange for your exchange back to your father. I will tell you that the soldiers we’ve captured are being well treated. I’ve opened their camps to administration by the Disciples of Healing and supplied them with as much as we can spare.”

“Lies.”

“Why would I like. You know first had that I am willing to see prisoners well taken care of, otherwise there would have been nothing for your father to exploit in his ruse.”

“Then I demand to see them.”

William looked at her for a moment, considering before a smile crept onto his face.

“That’s an excellent idea, actually,” He said with a nod, as if coming to a decision. “You’ll have to remain under guard, of course, but I think it’s an excellent idea for you to work with the Disciples as much as you’d like, helping your injured men.”

The princess’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Will that mollify you somewhat?” William asked.

She glared at him for a moment, although if trying to figure out if he was honest or just remaining hostility, William didn’t know.

“Yes,” she said at last, her tone still petulant.

But William detected something else beneath the surface – a hint of eagerness, perhaps? Or relief at the chance to do something meaningful? He couldn’t be certain, but if it made her stay here easier on everyone involved he was happy to have it.

“Very well,” William said. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements. You can begin tomorrow, if that suits you.”

“Yes,” she said, a little less angry than before.

“Then I will leave you to your very secret writing. I’ll have someone talk to the disciples and come for you in the morning.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, using a title for the first time.

“You an call me William,” he said, giving her a smile before leaving, pulling the door shut behind him.

An interesting girl.