In the Shadow of Lions - Chapter 8

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor

Edict of Travel

By Order of His Grace, King Serwyn Whitton the First, King of Sidor, on this day, let it be known that for the preservation of order and the safety of its people, the following restrictions on non-landed people living within the boundaries of the Kingdom of Sidor and its manor lands are hereby imposed:

Part One: Non-landed citizens shall not be permitted to travel outside their manor lord’s lands and purview without obtaining written permission from their baron or the baron’s appointed official. Permission shall only be granted for short durations when absolutely necessary for business or family reasons, and at the discretion of their baron or the baron’s appointed official.

Part Two: Until such time as the raids and unrest along the coast of Iron Keep have abated, travel to and from the Barony of Stormhaven is hereby prohibited without exception for any non-landed citizens not currently residing in that barony, for their own safety. Any non-landed citizen found to have traveled to or from the Barony of Stormhaven shall be considered a fugitive and face punishment.

Part Three: Non-landed citizens are forbidden from conducting business outside their home villages without obtaining a trade permit from their king or the king’s appointed official. Permits shall impose fees and only be issued when the King deems the business essential.

Part Four: Non-landed citizens must obtain all goods and services from approved village merchants and artisans as designated by their baron. Trade with outsiders is forbidden without baronial permission.

To enforce these restrictions, barons shall implement documentation checks on roads, increased patrols, and inspections of non-landed citizens’ homes and property. Violators shall face imprisonment, forced labor, fines, or other such penalties as seen fit by local authorities.

Additional restrictions may be announced as deemed necessary for preserving order and stability within the kingdom. All non-landed citizens shall comply fully and without delay.

“Uncle,” Serwyn said, letting the parchment fall onto the desk as he looked up. “I’ve read this over several times now. While I understand the intent, limiting the movement of peasants seems... pointless?”

“On the contrary, Your Grace, there is sound reasoning behind these restrictions. While, of course, the public reason is safety and security of the kingdom, in response to Baron Sinclair’s request for action on the part of the crown, there are real reasons for enacting this. For one, we have started seeing some... disquiet among your non-landed subjects that, if not accounted for, could lead to wider unrest or even revolt. Since unfettered movement allows for the spread of dissent and sedition, limiting it will limit the danger of a wider problem, should tensions boil over. It also prevents certain... elements, in the kingdom from gaining more power and becoming a potential problem. This early in your reign, there are those who will try and use the transition as an opportunity to gain power for themselves.”

“Elements? You mean of Baron Sinclair I assume,” Serwyn said, holding up the decree.

“I do,” Edmund nodded. “Garris has always been too sympathetic to the complaints of the masses. And it is no secret his barony has become a hotbed of peasant agitation and whispered schemes against the crown.”

“You keep telling me how dangerous Baron Sinclair is, and yet, every time I suggest the surest way to protect ourselves from him, you tell me executing the man for treason isn’t an option.”

“I understand it’s frustrating, but it is the reality of ruling. As I’ve said, while Sinclair has undoubtedly overstepped, he remains well-respected among many of the barons. Openly moving against him risks dividing the kingdom, perhaps even sparking civil war.”

In spite of himself, Serwyn frowned and began tapping out a rhythm against the arm of his chair, a habit he had when he was feeling frustrated or angry.

“It goes beyond just boxing Sinclair in, though, Serwyn. Limiting the ability for new peasants to come into his lands, or his dissatisfied peasants to leave is one strategy, and will cause unrest that he will have to deal with, but it isn’t the only one. Sinclair’s barony is one of the more prosperous ones in Iron Keep. Not so well off as the baronies of Delany Heights or Everwood, but still prosperous, which is why he’s been able to amass the power that he has. The new taxes will limit trade between the baronies, except for those who get permits from the crown, which will weaken our enemies and strengthen our allies, since we decide who has to pay the new travel tax.”

“Seeding distrust between them, pulling the barons apart?”

“Correct, and giving incentives to those barons to curry favor with the crown, in order to get their own permits. The barons are not fools, either. They understand who this is targeted at, and will not want to have any of Sinclair’s disfavor rub off onto them, further driving them apart.”

“And it puts more money into our coffers,” Serwyn said, picking up the paper again, reading it over once more.

“Exactly. I believe you’ll find that, sometimes, there is more to be gained by careful maneuvering and subtlety than brute force, Your Grace.”

Setting the paper on the desk in front of him, Serwyn picked up his quill, dipped it in ink, and signed his flowing signature at the bottom with a flourish.

“There. It is done,” Serwyn said, and then frowned again, the tapping returning.

Edmund took the letter and, sprinkling fine sand across it to help the ink dry, busied himself with affixing Serwyn’s seal to it while Serwyn thought.

Just as his uncle turned to leave, Serwyn said, “I know you wish me to handle matters more delicately, uncle. I understand your point, that direct action is not always the best way to do things, and I am trying to learn. It’s just, thinking three steps ahead here, two steps left there, it feels unnatural. I... I just wanted you to know that I am trying.”

Edmund placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze, “I know you are. I can see it, as can any who’ve seen the effort and time you’ve put into your new role. Ruling is... it’s not like being a warrior, which I know is disappointing. But when you succeed, when you leave your opponent guessing, cause them to play into your hand, it’s a unique feeling you won’t soon forget. You’re doing well, Serwyn. I knew you were a bright young man, ready for leadership, but even I didn’t predict how quickly you would have grown into your role. Have patience with yourself. This all takes time to master, but you are already well ahead of where I was when I was your age. In time, I have no doubt you will outshine us all.”

Serwyn smiled, one of his rare, genuine smiles.

“Thank you, Uncle. In time, perhaps it will be I instructing you, instead of the reverse.”

Edmund laughed, “I’ve no doubt of that, Your Grace. You’ve your father’s strength and your mother’s intellect. Fate has granted you the makings of a great king.”

Edmund collected the documents and was halfway to the threshold when Serwyn spoke again.

“You know I cannot let the matter of Sinclair lie forever. Once we’ve cut him off from his allies, I will demand his head. There is a time for discretion, and a time for action. When the moment comes, I will not hesitate to strike.”

“As is right and wise, Your Grace,” Edmund said, looking back with an approving look. “Patience now, action later, once the ground is properly prepared. You see, you understand statecraft better than you know.”

Serwyn smiled to himself again. He was learning. In time, he wouldn’t need to heed anyone’s advice or counsel but his own. When he was ready, he’d show everyone what it really meant to be king.

***

Dead Man’s Hills, Rendalia Province, Lynese

William felt powerful, important at the head of his small column of mounted men-at-arms. While Baron Pembroke hadn’t seen fit to send any knighted men with William, maybe because it would be beneath a knight to take orders from a young man, even one from the Whitton family. William didn’t mind. Ten strong, seasoned soldiers under his command was more than he could have hoped for when he stepped aboard the Lion’s Pride with his uncle several months ago.

He’d always hoped for a command, but he never imagined getting one this early. It was all he could do to keep the smile off his face as he attempted to emulate the stern, stoic expression Eskild always wore. The Thane Sergeant seemed to William the pinnacle of what a soldier could be. Strong, disciplined, and obviously respected by his comrades.

As they approached the camp, sentries called out a challenge, then waved them through once recognizing William’s armor and insignia. Riding between the handful of tents that made up this small command post, William made for the pavilion flying the standard of the Barony of Cloud Harbor; a simple keep, clouds on either side.

Dismounting, William stepped beneath the faded canopy of the pavilion, helmet under one arm. Sir Drummond stood in the center, conferring with a grizzled captain but looked up at William’s approach.

“Sir Drummond, I bring orders from Baron Pembroke.” William extended the letter, the wax seal imprinted with the sigil of a wyvern in front of two small hills.

The knight took the letter, broke the seal with a gnarled thumb, and quickly read the contents, his brow creasing as he did. Wordlessly, he handed the letter to the man beside him.

“It seems you’re in charge of this little situation we have, my lord,” he said.

William thought he could detect the hint of a smirk in the way the man said ‘my lord,’ but let it pass.

“Show us to the wagons,” he said, in as official a tone as he could muster.

Sir Drummond exchanged a silent look with the other man, gave a near imperceptible nod, and then gestured for William to lead the way. This was a border encampment, mostly in place as a central point for patrols riding up and down this section of the Sidorian line. The small wagon train lay a few dozen yards beyond, watchful soldiers standing guard over it.

There were nine wagons in total, each painted with the sign of the Order of Healing, twin palms holding an open flame. William had seen their robed brethren before on the streets of Starhaven, administering to the sick and needy in the city, but standing next to the men wearing the gold and red wyvern of the House of Montbore. Maybe it shouldn’t be surprising, after all, the acolytes served everyone, no matter their nationality. But, William had always felt the ancients were with them, aiding them in battle, hearing their offerings, so to see the same symbols with those they were fighting was… jarring.

The brown-robed men, and it seemed to be all men, busied themselves about their wagons. While all of the orders contained men and women, it made sense that they would send only men into a war zone like this, especially on a mission through the Dead Man’s Hills. Most bandits sold their honor a long time ago and had no problem in harming anyone, regardless of how untouchable they should be. There were stories of seekers, the Acolytes tasked with searching the world for newly unearthed or hidden mystic objects from the time of magic, who had disappeared while on their journey, only for their possessions to reappear in the hands of captured bandits.

Turning to Sir Drummond, William said, “Keep your knights here and keep an eye on them and the hills beyond, just in case. I’ll take my men to inspect the wagons.”

Sir Drummond gave him another look that suggested he might not think that the best idea but only said, “As you command, my lord.”

“You, with me,” he said to the men-at-arms he’d brought with him. “We’re going to search these wagons. There should only be medicine and foodstuffs. Anything, no matter how innocuous, that you find that isn’t either medicine or foodstuffs, report it immediately. We all know what the Lynesians are like. I don’t put it beyond any of them to sneak something like that in with the Order’s supplies. Sergeant Eskild will lead the search while I speak to the knights.”

Giving what he hoped was a commanding nod to Eskild, William turned his back on them, trying to seem confident that they’d follow his orders without question, and walked toward the still-mounted knights.

“I want to commend you on doing your duty and upholding your sworn oaths by escorting these disciples through the hills. However, I cannot allow you to pass through these lines. You have it on my word as a Whitton and member of the Sidorian Royal Family that I will see them delivered safely to their brothers, so they may continue their good work. Please return to your master and convey my thanks for his kind gesture in ensuring that these supplies arrived safely.”

William tried to remember every tale he’d ever heard of knights, every protocol he’d heard from both tutor and weapons master about the duties and responsibilities of nobility, and how those duties were to be handled. While these were his enemy, he had a responsibility, and he wanted to make sure that was carried out to its fullest.

The knight gave a nod and backed his men up, but did not return to the hills. For a moment William wanted to turn and look at Sir Drummond, to see how he should handle that, but he resisted the urge, instead turning to the wagons to help with the search. Eskild was directing the men-at-arms to check this, then that wagon, telling them to look here, then there, going over each wagon inch by stubborn inch.

So far, they had searched two wagons and found nothing other than what was expected, just as Sir Drummond had predicted. It wasn’t until he noticed Eskild watching the Disciples and not the wagons, that he had any sense things might not be going as smoothly as it seemed.

William looked to the men Eskild had been watching, although William was aware he was being more obvious about it than the Sergeant had been. It took a minute for him to see what Eskild was clearly seeing. It was subtle at first: a nervous glance shared between two disciples as the third wagon was inspected, one man shifting his weight and adjusting his robe, another whose eyes darted about too quickly. If William had only noticed that himself, he might not have thought anything of it, but the look on Eskild’s face said he should be concerned.

William opened his mouth to voice his suspicions to Eskild, but the sergeant was already moving. In two swift strides he closed the gap to the nearest disciple, seizing the man by the front of his robe. The disciple cried out in surprise as Eskild yanked him forward, ripping open the front of his robe to reveal a chain and gambeson underneath bearing the red and gold wyvern of Lynese.

“Armor!” Eskild bellowed. “These are no disciples!”

Around him, men cast off their robes and swords rang from scabbards as the false disciples drew their weapons. William spun, pulling his own sword from its sheath. All about him there were shouts of warning and the crash of steel.

The knights he had just sent away wheeled their mounts, brandishing their swords as they thundered toward the ranks of William’s footmen. William barely had time to brace himself before they smashed into his line.

Men cursed and screamed, blades slashing ruthlessly. William parried a swipe from a false disciple, then cut the man down with a backswing. He managed to jump back just as a mounted knight rode past, the blade meant for his head only grazing his scalp. He could feel the sharp sting on his scalp, but there was no time to do anything about it.

All was chaos. His men grappled desperately with the ambushers, fending off the pounding hooves and slashing swords of the knights. They were cut off from Sir Drummond and the rest of the Sidonians and in real danger of being annihilated. Through the madness, he caught sight of Eskild.

The sergeant waded through the fight, sword and dagger reaping lives with ruthless efficiency, a whirlwind of death. Even with Eskild’s ability, they were falling fast, surrounded and outnumbered. There had been dozens of false knights, not to mention the mounted knights. William had only brought ten men, half of whom fell when the deception was revealed, unprepared to protect themselves. Drummond had perhaps two dozen on hand, but half of those were archers whose job it would be to dispatch anyone coming from the hills in the distance, not repel an assault that appeared before them as if by the magic of old.

“Regroup on me!” William yelled.

He slashed desperately at the press of bodies. His sword turned aside another thrust before finding its mark, stabbing the man through. Risking a glance behind him, he saw Sir Drummond leading a knot of men into the fight, trying to break through to William and his surrounded detachment, bellowing like a giant. His hands swung a massive sword William most certainly wouldn’t have even been able to lift, smashing through metal and man. The turn had been too risky. One of the false disciples saw the distraction and charged. If not for the man-at-arms who stepped in front of William, taking the sword meant for him, William would have been dead.

Instead, the man he’d commanded, the man he’d supposed to have been leading, dropped dead at his feet. William slashed out with his sword, screaming with rage, his blade ripping the man’s cheek and mouth open, spinning him away and into the dirt.

William swung his sword in a desperate arc as more enemies attacked and more of his men died, trying to keep the press of enemies at bay. Blood ran down his forehead from the earlier sword cut, half-blinding him. He blinked it away just in time to see a sword thrust coming for his belly. Twisting aside, the blade only grazed his side before Eskild’s dagger found the man’s throat.

“Back to back!” Eskild bellowed, an arm going around William and pulling him forcefully backward. “Form up!”

The remaining three men clustered around William and Eskild, presenting a ring of steel to their attackers. William parried and stabbed, struggling to keep up with all the attackers coming at them. A knight’s sword caught his pauldron, denting the metal into his shoulder. He gasped at the burst of pain.

Across the melee, Sir Drummond crashed into the fight like a battering ram, two knights falling before him, skulls crushed by the giant blade.

“Break through!” Drummond roared. “To the Viscount!”

Step by bloody step, his knot of men battled toward William. So close now. William redoubled his efforts, trying to fight his way to meet them. A sword gashed his thigh, and he stumbled, nearly falling. Eskild held him up, his dagger finding the man’s heart.

“Whitton!” Sir Drummond said, his voice cutting above the noise.

“Fight through,” William yelled, turning and attacking toward Sir Drummond.

They had to get out of this and to the rest of their men, only a handful of steps away now. He stabbed one man, smashed a mailed elbow into the face of another, and then they were through. The fighting of Sir Drummond’s men was intense, but they no longer had men on all sides.

“Sir Drummond,” one of the men yelled.

William twisted to look. The knight sprawled on the ground, blood pouring from a deep gash along his ribs. Two men struggled to lift him. William shoved through to help, ducking as a sword whistled past his head. Together, they hauled the huge knight up. William wrapped Drummond’s arm across his shoulders, bearing up under his weight. Drummond’s men closed ranks around them. The big knight was barely conscious, feet dragging.

“Hold on, Sir Drummond,” William urged. “Just a little farther.”

William looked to the battle. More Sidonians came charging in on horseback, drawn by the sounds of the fight. The tide had turned, and the immediate danger was over. As he dragged the large knight, Eskild and the remaining men laid into the last of their enemies. Knights and false disciples fell before them until none were left standing.

As William lowered Drummond gently to the ground by the command tent, the sergeant strode up, his blade red with blood.

“We’ve carried the day,” Eskild said grimly, “but only just.”

“It’s not over yet,” William replied. Turning, he scanned the milling Sidonian soldiers until he spotted one wearing the sash of a mounted scout.

“You there, runner!” William called out with as much authority as he could muster through his exhaustion. The scout hurried over.

“My lord?”

“Ride as fast as your mount will take you back to Baron Pembroke and the main force. Tell him Sir Drummond is down and we expect to be attacked shortly from forces coming through the Dead Man’s Hills. Tell him I’m gathering in patrols and preparing to repel them, but that this assault will most likely be spread out, and our number is depleted.”

The runner just stood there for a moment, staring at him and then to the distant hills.

“Go. Now!” William said, his tone commanding, and for once not forced or false.

William watched as the man vaulted into the saddle of a fresh horse held by another soldier, then galloped off toward the Sidonian encampment upstream along the river as Eskild asked, “Are you sure?”

“I am. This ambush was to break our line, allow them to gather scattered forces coming out of the hills and be prepared before our reinforcements could arrive. Pull in the wounded and form up every man you can. We need to attack as soon as they appear out of the hills. If they consolidate their forces, they will roll over us and we will lose in our rear before Pembroke can arrive.”

Eskild looked at him, judging, then with a nod, turned and started barking orders.