In the Shadow of Lions - Chapter 9

William walked slowly across the blood-soaked field, carefully stepping over the bodies of the dead and wounded. The fighting had ended hours ago, but the moans and cries of injured men still filled the air as disciples moved among them, doing their best to treat gruesome wounds. The real disciples who arrived shortly after Baron Pembroke, not the soldiers disguised as healers.

Eskild walked silently at William’s side, his face an impassive mask. For William, it was all still painfully fresh: the ambush and his failure in detecting it. He had led good men into battle and paid the price in lives lost or ruined. The only reason any of them had been there, and allowed the Lynesians to get that close, was because of decisions he made. The weight of that responsibility felt crushingly heavy on his shoulders.

They came upon a wounded soldier lying on his back, clutching at a deep stab wound in his belly as he whimpered in agony. The man’s eyes were glassy with pain and fear—he knew the wound was mortal. One look and William could see the guts spilling from the wide gash were already going black.

“We need a healer over here!” William called, but he knew it was likely too late to save the man. He crouched down beside him, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Be still, friend. Help is coming.”

“Am I dying?” the man, not much older than William, asked in a whisper.

William glanced helplessly at Eskild, unsure of what to say. Of how to tell a man he’s about to die. Eskild gave a subtle shake of his head, telling William to go on.

“I fear so,” William said gently. “But we will stay with you until the end.”

The young soldier closed his eyes, tears leaking from the corners. His breath came in short, pained gasps for several long minutes until, with a final ragged exhalation, he lay still.

“All any commander can do is give his men the chance for an honorable death in battle. Many meet worse fates in this world.”

“And what fate will I meet when called to account for those I led into slaughter?” William yelled at Eskild. “How many more will I throw away without even considering the effect of my commands?”

Eskild didn’t flinch or even acknowledge the anger William turned on him. “Until your last breath or the war’s end, whichever comes first. This is what war is.”

William stood and wiped his face, looking away so Eskild wouldn’t see him. A disciple finally arrived, kneeling next to the man and closing his eyes. William and Eskild moved on, leaving the disciple to usher the man’s soul to the ancients in peace. As they walked away, Eskild looked back as the disciple knelt over the dead soldier. His face hardened.

“There will be consequences for the Lynese disguising themselves as disciples,” he said. “I’ve seen men killed for less.”

“I’m surprised it bothers you so much. I would have thought, being from Thay, you were a... not a follower of the Acolytes.”

“You can say Purifier; it will not cause me to be flayed alive,” Eskild said. “And yes, I am, but that doesn’t mean I take issue with the disciples. I have seen them heal and tend to too many dying men in too many battles. Besides, we aren’t as different as you’d like to think. We believe in the Ancients, just not your veneration of them.”

“Oh,” William said.

It was like hearing someone tell you they could fly like a wyvern and land on the moon. Instead, he asked, “What of Sir Drummond? Does he still live?”

“Yes. They took him to the field hospital, half-dead and leaking, but he was alive the last time I saw him.”

“I should... when we’re done I should go see him. Do you think he’d want me to?”

“Why wouldn’t he? I understand your people take visits by members of the royal family as some sign of good deeds.”

“Because I’m the reason he’s there. My uncle and Baron Pembroke both said letting this group in was a mistake, that it couldn’t be trusted. I spoke up and convinced my uncle to let them through. Because of my words, good men now lie dead or dying on this field.”

“Do you know for a fact that they wouldn’t have died otherwise?” Eskild asked. “They were waiting, under guard yes, but still close to our lines. Are you certain that, if their bait was not taken, they would have remained at a distance, not tried to attack anyway?”

“No, Sir Drummond was watching them, and he had his men ready to deal with them. My bringing new soldiers to reinspect the wagons, allowing us to become surrounded, forced Sir Drummond to respond, charge in to rescue us, thereby weakening our position. Had I not demanded the disciples be let through, he would have been better prepared. Yes, some may have died, but far fewer. And almost certainly not the majority of the men we brought with us.”

“Or, they could have convinced Drummond to give them another look, this time surrounding men without someone like Sir Drummond on the outside, ready to charge in and keep the ambush from turning into a slaughter. Perhaps they kill Sir Drummond and all his men and run into the countryside. Or, the ambush doesn’t work, but Sir Drummond’s forces are still weakened, except this time there isn’t someone to call for reinforcements, realizing the full scope of the enemy’s plan. It is impossible to know what would have happened differently,” Eskild said, and then stopped, placing a hand on William’s shoulder. “Difficult decisions are inherent to command. Evaluating your decisions is wise. Learning from them to keep you from making the same mistakes again is wise. Second-guessing yourself using information you have now that you didn’t have then is an exercise in futility, and foolish.”

“My uncle had the same information, but he would have made a different decision if not for me.”

“So is he foolish for letting you convince him against his better judgement or just so in your thrall that he has no will of his own, save yours?”

“I don’t… It’s not like that,” William protested.

“It’s not? Then how is his judgement to let you come here and reinspect the wagons blameless, while your asking him to allow you to do it makes you a fool?”

“I… that’s not the same thing.”

“I’m just telling you how it is, it’s your choice to believe me. What you can’t do is let the weight of your orders overwhelm you. Leadership is the art of bearing that crushing weight of responsibility you’re feeling without faltering. Of considering each life with equal gravity, and being willing to put those lives at risk if it is needed.”

“Maybe my father was right, and I’m not ready.”

“I’m not sure there’s such a thing as being ready to lead men into war. You only really know once you’re here, and see how you hold up under pressure.”

“And we can see how I’m holding up?”

“I’d say you did well. Are you judging yourself unfairly now? Yes. But in the moment, you didn’t stop to chastise yourself or feel sorry for yourself. You gave the orders that needed to be given and put more men’s lives to the test, because that’s what was needed. That’s the man I’d judge on, not the one seeing the battle’s aftermath now.”

“But will the men trust me next time?”

“If you show them what you did today... yes. The men do not expect perfection. Anyone who’s fought in war knows how unpredictable and unforgiving it can be. What they expect is that you weigh decisions well and when you spend their lives, you do it consciously, with reason. If you do that, you will have their trust. Speaking as one of those soldiers myself, what I saw today from you was a good start. You kept your head in battle, made the right decisions in a moment of chaos, and gave us a victory. No small feat.”

“Thank you,” William said.

“I was not offering you a compliment, only an honest appraisal.”

William was interrupted before he could think of a response.

“Lord Whitton,” a runner called, jogging over to them. “With Baron Pembroke’s compliments, my lord, he requests you join him and the other commanders at the assembly area at once to discuss the situation.”

“Tell him we’ll be right there,” William said, sending the man back the way he came.

As the man ran off, Eskild said, “They don’t normally call failures to go over post-battle strategy.”

With a pat on his shoulder, Eskild turned and followed the runner toward the gathered commanders. William gave one last look around the battlefield, before he too followed, leaving the dying and dead behind.

***

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor

Edmund Whitton stood on the balcony overlooking Palace Square, his hands clenching the railing tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. The sound of hundreds of people shouting and screaming floated up to him, each shout for Serwyn’s abdication and each jeer causing his hands to grip even tighter.

A cordon of knights stood fast, blocking the wide entrance into the palace square, but the mob was pushing against them hard. Edmund was no knight, but seeing the numbers of peasants continue to grow, he imagined it only a matter of time before there were enough of them to make it impossible to hold the tide back.

He couldn’t see actual weapons, but here and there peasants were holding lit torches, in spite of the midday hour, which boded ill.

Things had spiraled out of control too quickly, much faster than he’d expected. Yesterday there had been only fifteen or twenty peasants. Edmund had sent them away, ordering the palace gates barred to all petitioners, thinking they would calm if given time. It had been a non-event, so much so that he hadn’t even told Serwyn about it.

When the boy did finally notice there were people outside, gathered by the courtyard entrance, Edmund had told him he’d handled it. It would not do to fail at such a public, and local, problem. Serwyn was still malleable, and Edmund had yet to remove all the people in the palace that might try to challenge his role with the boy.

“Send for Captain Bramwell,” Edmund yelled over his shoulder to one of his stewards, not bothering to look back at him.

It took almost ten minutes for the Captain to appear, Edmund’s fury growing with each minute as he watched the crowd below.

“Your Excellency,” Bramwell said, stopping just outside the doorway to the balcony.

Edmund whirled on him, getting close to the captain, “Explain to me what is happening out there. Why have you done nothing about it?”

Captain Bramwell straightened to attention, keeping his gaze fixed steadily ahead, and said, “Your Excellency, the crowd started gathering before dawn, enlarging on the group that was here yesterday. At first, just a trickle of peasants drifting in through the city gates. My men kept watch but did not intervene as the numbers were small. However, over the last few hours, more and more have flooded into the square. I attempted to speak with some of the ringleaders, to convince them to disperse peacefully, but they are too angry to give up yet. By my estimate, there are close to a thousand peasants crowded into the square now, with more arriving by the minute. My guards are heavily outnumbered. Any attempt to remove them now will come with bloodshed.”

“Then why have you waited so long? Why have you done nothing?” he repeated. “When I brought you here from the countryside, your orders were to keep the peace in Starhaven. I gave you wide authority to use the city guard to stamp out any threat of unrest.”

“You did, Your Excellency,” Bramwell nodded. “But you also instructed me to keep the peace and ensure no scandal tarnishes the crown during the king’s transition. I have done my best to follow that directive by negotiating with the leaders in the crowd, attempting to get them to disperse peacefully. I had hoped, not pressing them and giving them time to calm, they would see the danger in the situation and clear the square without bloodshed. I was trying to follow your standing order, Your Excellency.”

“You thought my order was to allow rabble to insult the king? To throw things at the palace? Are you a fool? I don’t care what it takes, Captain. I want them out of that square immediately, by force if necessary.”

“As you command, Your Excellency,” Bramwell said. “I will have them removed at once.”

“See that you do,” Edmund said, and turned his back dismissively on the captain.

After several long minutes, Edmund spotted Bramwell emerging from the main palace gates, flanked by ranks of armored city guards. The crowd pressed together as the guards marched on them, perhaps in some vain hope it was a show of force and not an actual threat. They stopped a few paces away from the rabble, their shields up.

“Disperse now by order of the king, or we will remove you by force!” Bramwell shouted, pulling his sword.

The response was a hail of stones, rotten vegetables, and crude insults. Finally, Bramwell proved he wasn’t a complete incompetent, by giving the order again, proving his threat was nothing more than a bluff. Bringing his sword arm down, he signaled the guards, who began their charge, smashing into the packed mob.

The screams could be heard all the way to the grand hall.

***

Sidorian Army Camp, Chansol River, Lynese

William ducked his head as he entered the healer’s pavilion. Rows upon rows of ragged cots lined the interior, some shielded by thin partitions, others open to the central aisle. The tang of herbs and ointments mingled with the iron scent of blood, creating an unsettling atmosphere.

Brown-robed Disciples moved among the wounded soldiers, changing soiled dressings, administering elixirs, and offering genial words. Some briefly glanced in his direction as William passed, but otherwise ignored him, used to his frequent visits of late.

William threaded past the dying and the injured, pausing occasionally to greet a man here or there, offering words of encouragement. Most were sons of tenant farmers and small landholders, not career soldiers. Men called up from the levy to fight in the war far from their homes. He finally stopped by the patient he’d come to see. The one he’d visited each day for the past week.

Sir Drummond lay unmoving under a thin blanket, his skin pale and damp with sweat. Bandages swathed his chest and shoulder, marking where he’d suffered the grievous blow coming to William’s defense. Guilt gnawed at William as he looked down at the loyal knight. If not for William’s mistakes, Drummond would still be whole and healthy.

A Disciple in brown robes paused next to William. “He still clings to life, my lord, though his condition is unchanged. We have cleaned and bound his wounds, but the rest lies with the Ancestors now.”

It was the same as with every day, the Disciples apologetic they could do no more than they had, and a report that his condition remained unchanged.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“Of course. Let me know if you need anything.” The Disciple bowed and continued on his way, leaving William alone with his thoughts.

A dance repeated, day after day. William pulled over a three-legged stool and sat heavily, weariness seeping into his bones. While his guilt brought him here each evening, he still had his own duties to attend to. Mostly sitting in on councils of war as his uncle and the commanders worked to find a way out of their stalemate.

The new bridge over the Chansol River was progressing slowly. It was a costly project, with Lynesian archers firing continually as they worked. His uncle had ordered barricades built, great hulks of blackened branches roped together to shelter the builders, but that had only helped some. The Lynesians would fire arrows with lit cloth on the end, setting the barriers on fire, until the Sidorians threw them into the water, leaving the workers unprotected.

The activity repeated much the same way every day, as his uncle spent men’s lives to complete the bridge that would get them through this region and onto the open Lynesian plain. When he’d first heard the plan, a week ago, before his ill-fated first command, William had thought it genius. Yes, the predicted death toll had been on the high side, but that seemed a fitting exchange for getting their army into the open and ending the war. He’d even thought it the more humane option, since the sooner the war ended, the sooner their men could return home and leave this damnable place.

Now, he wasn’t as confident. He knew his uncle wasn’t callous or throwing men’s lives away without purpose. He also knew he’d been right, that it was better to end the war sooner, rather than drag it on endlessly. And yet, he’d learned the knowing the cost of ordering men into action knowing they would die, and couldn’t imagine how his uncle handled it.

But handle it Aldric did. While it wouldn’t be true to say he was happy to do it, he seemed unbothered each time they talked about it, and William was having trouble wrapping his mind around that fact.

He stared back down at Sir Drummond. Just one of the many he’d cost in his short battle. Twelve had died where they stood, including half of his original ten men he’d been given charge over. Three more had died of their wounds since then, and William had been powerless to do anything about it.

William had sat in silence for some time when a quiet voice spoke. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord. I don’t mean to intrude.”

He looked over to see a soldier with one arm bound across his chest reclining on a nearby cot.

“It’s no trouble. How are you?” William asked, indicating the man’s injury.

“Well as can be with this hole in my shoulder,” the soldier said, raising his slung arm slightly. “But the healers say I’ll keep the arm, so there’s that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

The soldier eyed Sir Drummond lying still on the cot. “I seen you here every day sitting with Sir Drummond. With him not being awake and all, I wondered what’s the point of a lord like you visiting an unconscious man?”

William studied the older man’s face before answering.

“You’re right that he can’t hear me speak, but then that’s not why I come here. I come here because it’s my duty, both as his lord and as the one who ordered the action that sent him here. He saved my life in the recent fighting by the Dead Man’s Hills, the least I can do in return is be with him while he recovers. Watch over him.”

The soldier frowned slightly but said nothing. William could see he didn’t get what he was trying to say.

“The lives of every man here were placed in my hands,” William continued, trying a slightly different tack. “As was the decision of when and how to risk those lives to achieve our ends. Such choices come with a great burden of responsibility, especially when the cost is borne in blood. My orders and my mistakes are the reason these men lie here now. So I will sit here, and though he cannot hear my words, I hope in some way Sir Drummond knows that I am here.”

The soldier regarded William thoughtfully. “Can’t say as I ever heard of a lord acting as you do, visiting his wounded men every day. Most highborns I’ve known don’t spare a thought for the common soldiers bleeding for ‘em.”

William shrugged. “I can’t speak to what other lords may or may not do. I only know my own mind in this. When men pledge their service to you, you owe them your care and protection in return.”

“That’s fair,” the soldier replied. “And more than most would say these days.”

“What’s your name?”

“Garr, m’lord. Garr of Eliston.”

“I am William,” he said, extending a hand.

Garr stared at his outstretched hand for a moment as if it were some foreign thing before reaching out and shaking it.

“Where were you injured?” William asked.

“By the Chansol River, fighting against the Lynesian rear guard, trying to take the bridge before they could destroy it,” the soldier replied. “We got damned near it too. Had those knights not come charging across, we would have had it. Still, being what it is, we held together as they hit us. Took an arrow to the shoulder for my trouble.”

“You were with Sir Alister’s men then?” William asked, his mind going to the maps he’d looked over at his uncle’s councils, trying to remember who led the charge to take the river during the first advance, before the bridges were burned.

“Aye.”

“A difficult business from what I heard.”

Garr didn’t respond right away, only shifted on his cot, wincing slightly at the movement.

“Begging your pardon again, but might I ask a question?” he said, finally.

“Of course.”

“I was just wondering. Seeing as how Sir Drummond is an ordained knight and all, it makes some sense a lord would come see to him. And it has me wondering: would you have done the same for a common man-at-arms as you do for a knight?”

William was a little surprised, more than he should have been after spending time with Eskild. He’d assumed the... informal nature of the Thay sergeant had been due to either his close relationship with Aldric or his upbringing in Thay, but this man had similar attitudes. William hadn’t spent much time outside of Starhaven, and there the weapons masters and tutors had always been exceedingly deferential. He wondered now if that had been why they’d been picked, beyond their actual skill.

“I would, and have been, in fact. The other wounded men were all simple soldiers, men-at-arms, and not knights. I visited them just as I did Sir Drummond, until the last one was released yesterday. Of the men I fought with, only Sir Drummond remains.”

“Oh,” Garr said, looking past William to Sir Drummond.

“I haven’t ever traveled there,” William said. “Tell me about life in Everwood. Tell me about Eliston.”