An Ending of Oaths - Chapter 6

Starhaven, Sidor

Serwyn sat with his back to his office, ignoring the trophies and ornate tapestries as he stared out the window. His uncle had stacks and stacks of correspondence and missives for him to read, but he’d quickly grown bored of it.

While he’d rather be down in the training grounds sparring with a weapons master or working on his archery, he knew his Edmund would hear of it from one of his little spies and come give him ‘advice.’

Serwyn fumed at the imagined slight. It was always more like a dressing down than advice, but oh so carefully worded. He recognized he needed Edmund, that he didn’t understand all of the finer points of bureaucracy. He even wanted his uncle involved, to handle the mundane, boring tasks he was certain his own father had left to someone else when he was off fighting war.

That’s where he really should be. Out with the armies winning glory and having his men cheer his name instead of William. He’d even tried to order it to be so, multiple times, each of which was somehow turned around by his uncle, who’d twisted him so full of knots that he’d been unable to see straight, finally giving in and agreeing to stay.

Serwyn sighed. He was trapped in this gilded cage, and he longed for escape.

A knock at the door shifted his attention.

“Come,” he commanded, and almost smiled as he saw Sir Colm walk in.

He was a strange-looking man. Man. More like a hawk on two legs, those black eyes always looking for a victim. Victim was the right term. Colm was as much cutpurse as he was guardsman. Knighting him was one of the smartest things Serwyn had done. Other knights, more traditional ones, always went on about honor and propriety, instead of seeing the world as it was. Serwyn wasn’t that kind of fool.

He understood that sometimes reality was more important than ideals, and he recognized that trait in Colm. A man willing to do what must be done.

And exactly the man Serwyn needed at the moment.

Serwyn’s pleasure turned to annoyance almost immediately, however, as Colm continued to look around the room, a slightly confused expression on his face. This wasn’t his normal scanning of every room the man walked into, a prudent gesture even in the palace. Or especially in the palace. No, he was looking for someone specific, and Serwyn knew exactly who he was looking for.

“Looking for someone?” Serwyn said, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

Colm’s gaze snapped to the young king. “Your Majesty, I thought perhaps Lord Edmund might be present.”

“My uncle is not here, as you can plainly see,” Serwyn said, his lip curling. “Would you like me to go get him, or do I have your approval to work with you?”

The sarcasm was evident, and he could see Colm catch it.

“No, your majesty. Of course not. I apologize.”

“Good, because I have a task for you, Sir Colm. One that requires your particular... talents.”

“I am at your service, Your Majesty.”

Serwyn stood, moving to the window. He looked out over Starhaven, the city sprawling beneath him. For a moment, he was silent, considering his words carefully. He knew this was a big move, but he also knew it was the right one.

“Thomas Fletcher,” Serwyn said finally, turning back to face Colm. “I want him found and killed.”

“Killed, Your Majesty? Not arrested and brought in?”

The question wasn’t squeamish or astonished or surprised, but rather neutral, like he was checking off a list.

“No. I don’t want him in prison or standing trial. Thomas Fletcher is a traitor and a rebel and doesn’t deserve the courtesy of our laws. I want him assassinated.”

“As you command, Your Majesty.”

“To be clear, I don’t want it to be a spectacle. Don’t ride into whatever village this fiend is hiding in and cut him down in the square. Make it quiet. Make it clean.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, Your Majesty. However, regardless of how discreetly it’s carried out, it will be difficult to hide that the order came from you.”

Serwyn waved a hand dismissively. “Let me worry about that, Sir Colm. Your job is to find Fletcher and end him.”

“What of Fletcher’s family, Your Majesty? Should they be... dealt with as well? To eliminate any loose ends?”

Serwyn leaned on the window sill, his fingers hooked over the edge of its ledge, tapping as he thought. It was tempting. Take everything the man had before he lost his life, so he would know a fraction of the pain he’d caused Serwyn. But... he had to play this right for his plan to work. It had to feel right, and people would get squeamish if he pushed too far. Might not believe it.

“No. They’re irrelevant. Fletcher is the threat, not his brood. Leave them be.”

Colm nodded, accepting the decision without comment. Good, he was just the kind of killer Serwyn needed. The boy pushed off the window sill and took a step to his desk, rifling around the stacked papers for a moment until he found the one he wanted. He folded it in the traditional way but purposefully did not apply the wax that would close it and hold his seal.

“This letter,” Serwyn said, holding it out to Colm, “must be placed in Fletcher’s pocket after the deed is done. Make sure it’s found on his body.”

Colm reached for the letter, but his hand hesitated, hovering just short of taking it. “Your Majesty, if I may... have you discussed this plan with Lord Edmund?”

Serwyn’s eyes flashed dangerously. His fingers tightened on the parchment, crinkling it slightly.

“I am the king. I do not need my uncle’s approval to make decisions. Or have you forgotten the oath you swore when I knighted you? To serve the kingdom with your body and blood until your death?” Colm, stone-cold killer he was, took a step back at the expression on Serwyn’s face. “I am the kingdom. Your duty is to serve me.”

Colm’s face remained impassive, but Serwyn could see it in his eyes. He could see the threat Serwyn possessed, that he was not a man to be trifled with.

“Unless... you no longer believe in serving your king?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Again, forgive my impertinence.”

He was Edmund’s man, there was no doubt of that. A distinct problem.

“Should word of what you’ve done get back to my uncle, I will know it was you, and we will have a problem. Don’t ever forget who pays you, or who you serve. Do we understand each other?”

Colm took the letter, tucking it securely into his doublet. “Absolutely, my king.”

“Good,” Serwyn said, smiling again as if nothing had happened. “You may go.”

Colm gave the briefest of bows and left, ignoring the other standard protocol, not that Serwyn cared. He needed the man for his ruthlessness, not his courtly knowledge.

As the door closed behind Colm, Serwyn returned to the window. He looked out over Starhaven again, a sense of satisfaction coursing through him. This would work.

He would show them all what true strength looked like.

***

Soriveau, Lynese

Isolde walked among the tents and campfires on the outskirts of Soriveau, the expensive finery she had left the capital in a week ago replaced by a simple dress and traveling cloak one of the men had acquired in the city.

Between the travel to the Avan woods and her frequent trips out to the soldiers’ camps, her delicate clothes had become damaged beyond use. She actually found she preferred to be wearing less fancy, and much less tight, clothing. Beyond making it easier to breathe, she felt more a part of the people around her, rather than a doll to be carefully tended.

Not that the men treated her any less carefully than they ever did. Which only endeared them more to her.

She could hear them talking, gossiping as soldiers did, as she walked into the small circle of tents.

“I tell you, they were north of here, maybe a day’s ride.”

“No. The captain says they’re way to the west, and just broke through our lines, with a clear shot to the capital. We’re wasted out here. We should…”

The conversation cut off abruptly as she stepped into the firelight, causing some of the boys to scramble to their feet while others bowed their heads respectfully.

“Please, don’t stand on ceremony,” Isolde said, gesturing for them to remain seated. “I only wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Your Highness, we’re managing well enough. The lads are grateful for what you’ve done already,” one of the older men in the group said.

“I know it wasn’t much…”

“No, your highness,” one of the younger ones said. “The extra food was the finest I’ve ever had, and my belly is more full than I remember in a long time. You angels sent!”

She smiled at the young man and asked, “And what of the accommodations? I know many of you are still without proper shelter.”

“It’s not so bad, your highness. The men you found room for already opened up more tents, so we’re not sleeping six and seven to a four-man tent anymore.”

“We’ve weathered worse, your highness,” another said.

“That may be true, but it doesn’t make it right,” Isolde replied, her brow furrowing. “I promise you, it won’t be much longer until I can secure proper quarters for all of you within the city walls.”

An older man with a jagged scar across his cheek spoke up. “We know you’re fighting for us, Princess. You’ve already done more than most nobles ever would.”

“Aye,” another chimed in. “Getting the wounded into proper houses did the angels proud. We know our turn will come.”

Isolde felt a pang of guilt. These men deserved so much more than scraps of comfort doled out piecemeal while so many still lived in luxury in the city proper.

Herself included.

“Your patience humbles me,” she began, “but I assure you, I won’t rest until…”

Her words were cut short by a sudden, thunderous sound that shook the very ground beneath their feet. The soldiers exchanged confused glances, starting to rise from where they’d been lounging.

“What in the seven hells was that?” one of the younger men asked, his voice cracking.

Before anyone could answer, a cry rang out from the edge of the camp. “To arms! To arms!”

Chaos erupted. Soldiers scrambled for weapons. Men were shouting and running from here to there. Isolde stood frozen, unsure of what she should do.

“Your Highness, we need to get you to safety,” a soldier said, grabbing her by the arm and pushing her toward the city proper.

She resisted.

“What’s happening? We…”

Her words died in her throat as horses burst from the treeline, their riders bearing the unmistakable colors of Sidor, sweeping into the camp, cutting down men who were still trying to form into something like a defensive line.

Isolde watched in horror as men she had just been speaking with fell beneath flashing blades and trampling hooves. The smell of blood and upturned dirt filled her nostrils. The sound of screams and ringing steel in her ears.

“Run, Your Highness!” the soldier said, pushing her hard as he drew his sword. “Warn the city! Go!”

He turned away from her and charged into the oncoming cavalry, futilely trying to protect her from the oncoming horde. Isolde stumbled, then found her footing and ran. Her legs burned as she sprinted toward the unwalled city.

As she reached the outskirts and started seeing civilians and the occasional soldier, she began shouting.

“We’re under attack! Sidorians are attacking!”

For a moment, people just watched her as she ran further into town, shouting, unsure of what was happening or how to take such an unexpected announcement. And then the sounds of battle caught up to them, still in the distance but growing louder, and pandemonium reigned.

Civilians began running in every direction, some fleeing toward their homes while others ran for the closest open doorway. Many just stood where they were, paralyzed.

She’d made it hardly a block into town when a group of soldiers pushed their way toward her through the crowd. She recognized one of them as a lieutenant from the keep, one of the many soldiers she’d invited into her home as soon as she’d arrived in Soriveau, much to the chagrin of the commander of the garrison force, who’d decided it was the best place to set up his headquarters, probably assuming the emperor would not know a lowly soldier, no matter the rank, had stayed in his home.

It was probably the only reason he hadn’t shipped her home right away when she’d first arrived, arguing that she should be allowed to stay. He’d agreed until he could get a large enough escort to accompany her home, but she’d been certain that had been a delaying tactic, while he tried to find a way out of the trap he’d set himself in.

“Princess!” the lieutenant said. “Thank the gods we found you. We need to get you to the keep immediately.”

“No! We have to organize a defense. The Sidorians…”

“With respect, Your Highness, our orders are to ensure your safety. The keep is the most defensible position.”

Two of the soldiers grasped her arms, not roughly, but firmly, all but lifting her off the ground as they began to pull her toward the center of town.

“You don’t understand,” she pleaded, struggling. “There are still men out there. We can’t abandon them!”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but we have our orders. The commander will organize the defense.”

Isolde continued to struggle against the soldiers as they pulled her through the chaotic streets of Soriveau. They were slowed by the mass of people running through the street, shouting. They were over halfway there when a large crowd came pouring in from the east, followed by shouts and sounds of fighting.

The same thing then happened from the west. Here and there, she could see the Sidorian colors, their damned lion, pushing into the crowds. Soldiers tried to assault them, but their numbers continued to grow, making it a futile task.

Civilians went down too, here or there, but it seemed to her only as they got in the way of fighting, more accidents than brutality, a commentary in the back of her mind that surprised her.

“Seven hells,” one of the soldiers cursed. “They’ve surrounded us!”

The lieutenant’s face paled. “Change of plans. We need to get off the main street. Now!”

He jerked his head towards a narrow alley, and the group veered sharply, nearly losing their footing on the uneven cobblestones. As they rounded the corner, they came face to face with a group of terrified townspeople huddled together.

Isolde wrenched free of her guards and raised her voice. “Get to your homes! Bar the doors and windows! Go, now!”

The civilians scattered, some following her instructions while others fled deeper into the town. Isolde turned back to her escort, her eyes blazing with determination.

“We need to organize a defense,” she insisted. “These people are defenseless!”

The lieutenant shook his head. “We don’t have the numbers, Your Highness. Our orders are clear—”

His words were cut short as a Sidorian soldier charged into the alley, sword raised. The lieutenant barely had time to draw his own weapon before the attacker was upon them.

Steel clashed against steel as the Lynesian soldiers formed a protective circle around Isolde. She pressed herself against the wall, watching in horror as more Sidorian troops poured into the narrow space.

“Run, Your Highness!” one of her guards shouted, parrying a vicious blow. “We’ll hold them off!”

Isolde hesitated for a moment, torn between her desire to help and the reality of her helplessness in combat. With a pang of guilt, she turned and fled deeper into the alley.

The sounds of fighting followed her as she emerged onto another street, this one already in chaos. Sidorian and Lynesian soldiers clashed in small, brutal skirmishes.

Isolde’s voice was hoarse as she shouted, “To your homes! Barricade yourselves inside!”

A woman clutching a small child stumbled and fell nearby. Isolde rushed to her side, helping her to her feet.

“Are you all right?” she asked, steadying the woman.

The woman nodded, wide-eyed with fear. “Thank you, miss. But where can we go? They’re everywhere!”

Isolde looked around frantically, spotting a sturdy-looking building with a heavy door. “There,” she pointed. “Get inside and bar the door. Don’t open it for anyone.”

As the woman hurried away, Isolde continued down the street, repeating her warnings to anyone who would listen. The majority of the civilians, however, ran for the center of town. To the keep. The only place that must have seemed safe in the entire city.

Isolde found herself swept along with them, into a bustling market square, the once orderly stalls now overturned and abandoned. Merchants’ wares littered the ground, trampled underfoot by fleeing civilians and advancing soldiers alike.

A surge in the crowd knocked Isolde off her feet. She tumbled to the hard cobblestones, her breath driven from her lungs, skin ripping from one knee as her dress was torn. As the crowd washed over her and on to the center of town, she saw what had caused the sudden panic.

A large group of Sidorian soldiers were pushing back a much smaller group of Lynesian defenders who were quickly becoming overwhelmed. Their fate was sealed when more Sidorians from the other direction where Isolde had just come ran into the market square.

The soldiers saw the writing on the wall and threw their weapons to the ground, raising their hands in surrender. Isolde braced herself for a slaughter, the brutal Sidorians everyone in the capital talked about cutting down their prisoners without care or remorse.

It never came. The soldiers were rounded up and huddled in one spot as their hands were bound, but other than that, they were unmolested. Then they saw her. A group of Sidorians formed a ring around her, looking down at her. She felt so small and vulnerable, the sudden reality of the situation hitting her as she was cut off from help or escape.

She could see some of the surrendered men looking toward her, realizing she was there, looking furious, maybe because they surrendered instead of dying to protect her. She was glad they surrendered and chose to live. She didn’t want any more of her people dying for her.

Isolde waited for the inevitable. Again, it never came.

The soldiers parted, and a tall figure in gleaming armor walked into the circle. He was in charge. There was no doubt. His bearing radiated authority as he barked orders to the men around him.

“Secure the square! And move additional men to the keep. I don’t want it reinforced any more. Block the city and get minimal patrols into areas already taken. No looting, and minimal harm to civilians. Move!”

The Sidorians scrambled to obey, fanning out into the town as the armored man turned his attention toward her, reaching up to remove his helm. Isolde was stunned by his appearance as he revealed himself to be anything but what she’d expected.

She’d been prepared for a grizzled veteran. A commander of uncountable wars with a scarred face to match his experience. Instead, she saw a young man no older than she was, with brown hair and deep, soft brown eyes. His face was striking. He would not have looked out of place at her father’s court.

Again he upset her expectations as he extended a hand toward her and, in a surprisingly gentle voice, said, “You’re safe now, my lady. No harm will come to you.”

She took the help up and brushed herself off, both physically and mentally. She was not a scared child. She was Isolde Montborne, daughter of Emperor Baudric Montborne, second in line to the throne. She did not cower to any soldier.

Mustering all of her royal dignity, she said, “I demand to know who you are and by what right you slaughter my people.”

The young man’s lips quirked in what might have been amusement, but his eyes remained serious.

“I am William Whitton, commander of the Sidorian forces in Lynese, and I take this town by right of conquest and the traditions of combat. And I have not slaughtered any of your people. Those who surrendered were, and will continue to be, treated fairly. Those who do not suffer the fate of any soldier in war, sad as that may be.”

She was almost too shocked by his first words to let anything else he said register. William Whitton? A member of the Sidorian royal family? Here?

He shocked her again a moment later.

“And you, unless I’m much mistaken, are Princess Isolde Montborne, daughter of Emperor Baudric Montborne,” he said, echoing her thoughts from just a moment before. “Word reached us that you were in Soriveau. I’m sorry, princess, but you are now my prisoner.”

Isolde’s mouth dropped in shock. His prisoner?