In the Shadow of Lions (Shattered Lands #1) - Chapter 1

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor

“The king is dead,” a voice said behind Aldric Whitton, pulling him out of his thoughts. He’d been staring out over the balcony, off of their elder brother’s royal chambers, at the city sprawling beneath it and the sea beyond, so wrapped up in thought that he hadn’t heard Edmund enter until he spoke.

“When?” Aldric asked, turning to face his older brother.

“Not ten minutes ago. The sickness finally finished what the Lynesians started.”

Aldric was crushed. For all of their brother’s faults, and they were legion, he still loved the man and looked up to him as any youngest child looks up to the eldest. He’d been a towering figure, the Golden Lion, leading their people to the greatest victories they’d achieved in generations.

Yes, he’d also been foolhardy, leading charges in their war against the Lynese, their adversary across the Devil’s Backbone and the divide that separated their two continents. Some nameless yeoman’s sword achieved what scores had been unable to do in single combat. The wounds he’d received had festered; the physicians were unable to cure him of the fever that had set in. He’d already been in a coma by the time his men had completed the long, roundabout voyage to bring their king home. What added to his feelings was the fact that Aldric hadn’t spoken to his brother since before he’d left for the invasion. They’d squabbled, both as brothers and as a duke to his king, not knowing that would be the last time they’d ever speak.

“Someone should have sent for me,” Aldric said. “I should have been there.”

“To do what? He’s been hanging onto death for almost a month. What would you have said to him that you haven’t said already? And what would it have mattered? He couldn’t hear you. Grieving over our idiot brother and his recklessness won’t bring him back.”

“Mind your words,” Aldric said, frowning.

“Fine,” Edmund said, dismissively. “I’ll instruct the stewards to begin preparations for a funeral worthy of his station. Happy? Now, we have real things to worry about. Serwyn is destined for the throne, but he’s still a young man, barely out of childhood. He is going to need guidance, and we have a war to think about.”

Aldric knew his brother, always scheming. He wouldn’t have brought up their nephew, the soon-to-be king, if he didn’t already have an answer to his concerns.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked, suspicious.

“As the eldest, or at least eldest still living, I’ll serve as regent and guardian for Serwyn until he comes of age,” Edmund said matter-of-factly.

“Serwyn is fourteen, hardly a boy anymore. He doesn’t need regency. Guidance, yes, but he’s of age already and is entitled to rule in his own name.”

Edmund waved a hand dismissively, “The law grants me regency until he is crowned. We cannot afford to look weak now, not with our men still in the field.”

“I think the noble council will have something to say about your interpretation of the law. You’re only granted the right to maintain the kingdom until his coronation, not regency.”

“The nobility will respect my decision. The boy is untested, and he needs guidance. Either way, you said yourself that I have the right to maintain the kingdom. We cannot hold Serwyn’s coronation until after Gavric lies in state and the rites are finished. Until then, I have the responsibility, and the right, to ensure Sidor’s strength. And I’ll need your help.”

“Then I ask, what exactly did you have in mind?” Aldric asked.

“I will stay here and guide Serwyn, serve as his advisor. We can both agree that he is too young and inexperienced to lead men in war, and we still have armies in the field. You are to go to Lynese and take command of our forces, and finish what Gavric started. The Lynese will surely see this as an opportunity. We have spent too much of the treasury on this foolish endeavor already. We need to either defeat them or sue for peace. I don’t care which, as long as this drain on the kingdom ends quickly.”

“You should care, or have you forgotten all of the reasons Gavric took the war to them in the first place?”

Aldric had vehemently disagreed with the war and attempted to talk Gavric out of it, but that didn’t mean their brother had launched his invasion without due consideration. The Lynese king was a snake and had been attempting to weaken their kingdom for decades, playing the other nations off against Sidor, raising tensions, and funding unrest. When Gavric uncovered their payments to a group of raiders along the northern coast, he’d decided it was enough and declared war. And he’d had great success, conquering a large area of their lands quickly before his untimely injury. It would be a waste, not only of the money spent but the lives lost, to walk away from it now, and it would embolden them further.

“We can’t just walk away,” he said.

“Fine, then win the war. I don’t care. Just take care of it.”

“But …”

“No. As regent, this is my decision to make, and I’ve made it. You and I both know I was never as military-minded as you or our brother, and I have the least experience. One of us must go, unless you think it wise to put one of the other dukes in charge of an army.”

“Of course not,” Aldric said.

Although the dukes of the Iron Keep, Ice Lands, and Shadow Hold, the other three of the five duchies in the Kingdom of Sidor, had been loyal to their brother, there was no guarantee they would continue to be so. Sidor's history was rife with dukes thinking they had enough power or the support of the people to challenge the throne. Sometimes it resulted in a change of leadership, such as when their ancestor established the Whitton Dynasty. Even when a revolt was unsuccessful, it could create unrest that stretched for years, which they could not afford.

Edmund had him in a box. He was correct when he said he had no mind for war. For every martial virtue Gavric had maintained, Edmund had focused on manipulation and politics. It had served him well, and during their brother’s rule, he’d used it to strengthen their house and bring the barons in line. But it did not suit him to lead men into combat.

“Then it’s settled. Prepare what you need to sail,” Edmund said, turning and leaving as abruptly as he’d come.

***

William brought up the wooden training sword, parrying the slash with a quick turn of the wrist, the clack of wood on wood echoing across the empty courtyard. It had been a spirited attack, but clumsy. He and his cousin Serwyn might be the same age, but William was the superior swordsman. That wasn’t just his own ego speaking. The sword master had said as much several times, although tactfully enough to keep from being on the receiving end of his cousin’s ire, which wasn’t an easy feat.

William was far less tactful and couldn’t repress a smile as he countered his cousin’s attack, pushing him back on the defensive. Serwyn grew increasingly frustrated, his defense becoming wild and uncontrolled. William watched Serwyn carefully, reading his body language and predicting his next move. As Serwyn lunged, attempting to regain the momentum, he overextended his reach. William sidestepped it and landed a stinging blow to Serwyn’s back.

His cousin stumbled forward, barely keeping his feet under him, whirling to face him, his face reddened by exertion and anger.

“You got lucky,” Serwyn spat, clutching his training sword tightly.

William said nothing. It had not been luck, and they both knew it. What really added insult to the injury was that Serwyn trained for hours every day under the best weapon masters in the kingdom, while William had to make do with whatever guardsman might be available to work with him.

Any time he asked for better tutors, his stepfather had demurred, claiming other obligations came first. Not that William didn’t train as hard or as often, but much of that was alone, against practice dummies, working things out on his own.

Which didn’t sit well with his cousin any time they sparred and William won. Serwyn launched himself forward with a roar, swinging his wooden sword toward William’s ribs. William pivoted deftly to the side, Serwyn’s blade whizzing past him with inches to spare. The duel had been going on for some time now, and Serwyn’s attacks were growing increasingly reckless as frustration took hold.

After a quick flurry of strikes and counters, William spotted an opening in Serwyn’s defense. He feinted left, then as Serwyn moved to block, he ducked low and swept his leg out, knocking Serwyn’s feet out from under him. His cousin hit the ground hard, his sword clattering away across the stones.

William reached down to offer his cousin a hand up, but Serwyn slapped it away, letting out a strangled cry of rage as he leaped to his feet. William had put his sword into his offhand, assuming the match was over. It wasn’t until the last second that he noticed his cousin had taken a handful of dirt, flinging it into his face.

William stumbled back, temporarily blinded as the grit stung his eyes. He scrubbed at them furiously, cursing under his breath. He barely managed to clear it in time to block Serwyn’s attack.

“Not so good now, are you?” Serwyn snarled.

“If you think cheap tricks will help you win, you’re more a fool than I thought,” he shot back, blinking away the last of the dirt and gripping his sword tightly.

Serwyn let out a bellow and charged forward, but William was ready. He parried Serwyn’s wild swing and delivered three quick blows - one knocking the sword from Serwyn’s hand, the next to his ribs, and the last squarely on his back, sending him sprawling once more.

Panting, William stood over his cousin with the tip of his sword hovering just above Serwyn’s heaving chest.

“Do you yield?” he asked sharply.

Serwyn’s face twisted in anger and humiliation. He spat in the dirt but said nothing.

William shook his head in disgust, stepping back and lowering his practice blade. “I’ll take that as a 'yes.'”

“I don’t yield to peasants, not even a jumped-up one like you. You’re not even a real Whitton.”

“Real enough to know your father would never take a cheap shot like that. If you want to be king one day, you need to figure that out. It’s pathetic.”

He knew he was baiting Serwyn, but the shot about not being a real Whitton cut deep. Even though his stepfather had officially named William his heir, he always felt like he wasn’t a real member of the family. An insecurity Serwyn picked up on a long time ago and used when he wanted to hurt William.

The baiting worked. Serwyn’s face darkened even further, and his fists tightened. Though he knew Serwyn was about to throw a punch, he also knew that he couldn’t give the spoiled prince the beating he truly deserved. Not with his stepfather, Edmund, likely to take Serwyn’s side if things escalated. The last thing William wanted was to be sent to the high tower, tasked with cleaning quills and binding pages under the watchful eye of the monks. He’d rather face an angry sand lizard than endure that tedium.

When Serwyn reared back, William deftly stepped out of reach. His cousin’s wild swing met only air. Before he could regain his balance, William darted back in and grabbed Serwyn’s wrist, twisting just enough to send him sinking to his knees with a grunt of pain.

“Don’t,” William said sharply.

Serwyn’s face contorted, torn between rage and pain. Just as it seemed he might wrench free and renew his attack, or William would have to commit and really hurt him, a commanding voice cut through the courtyard.

“That’s enough!”

Both young men turned to see William’s stepfather, Edmund, striding toward them, annoyance etched across his face. Though not a warrior by nature, William’s stepfather nevertheless cut an imposing figure in his rich doublet and cloak, a silver circlet resting upon his golden curls. His handsome face was creased into a deep frown as he looked between his nephew and stepson.

“Let him go, William,” Edmund snapped. After a pause, he repeated the command more firmly. “Now!”

With a frustrated sigh, William released Serwyn and stepped back, shooting his cousin a warning look. Serwyn slowly climbed to his feet, embarrassment warring with resentment in his blue eyes as he clutched his sore wrist.

Edmund looked them over critically before speaking again, “You’re not a child anymore, William. Brawling like this is beneath you.”

William bit his tongue. Of course, he blamed him. It didn’t matter that it took two people to fight, or that Serwyn had thrown the first punch. All that mattered was William was there, which meant he was at fault.

“I came here with serious news to discuss, so let’s put this behind us for now. Although, if I see it again, there will be punishments. Clear?”

“Yes, Father,” William said, looking down.

“Good. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, nephew, but your father is dead. Even though we all knew this day was coming soon, ever since his ship landed and we saw his condition firsthand, I know it still comes as a shock. I’ll understand if you need a moment,” Edmund said in a gentle voice William had never heard directed at him.

For Serwyn’s part, he seemed barely bothered by the news. There was no outpouring of grief or anguish from the prince over his father’s passing. True, the news wasn’t a complete shock, not with how long the great king had been lingering on the brink of death, but William had expected more. Who knows what was going on inside of Serwyn’s head, but to William, it seemed he was more annoyed at the interruption to his sparring than sad to hear his father had just died.

For William, it was as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He’d always idolized his uncle, who regaled him with battles and adventures when he was younger. Gavric inspired him. Made him want to be better. And now he was gone.

“Take some time, and then we need to start discussing your coronation. You’re going to be king, but there’s much to do before you’re crowned officially.”

“I’m ready,” Serwyn said.

“You will make a fine king. I have no doubt,” Edmund said, clasping a hand to Serwyn’s shoulder and steering him out of the courtyard without another glance at William.

Serwyn suddenly glanced back at William, his blue eyes cold. A slight, cruel smile curved his lips in an unmistakable threat. A promise to punish his cousin for past grievances, real or imagined.

William barely registered the glance, wiping away a tear that had started to form, fighting the grief that threatened to consume him.

***

Valemonde, Kingdom of Lynese

In the opulent heart of the Lynese palace, Baudric Montbore, King of the Lynese, sat at the head of the ornate dining table, savoring thin slices of venison. His rotund form overflowed the intricately carved chair, its detailed etchings narrating the conquests and betrayals of his forebears.

To his right sat Baudric the Ninth, his eleven-year-old heir, fidgeting slightly, bored as his eldest sister, Viviane, recited her latest poetry for anyone who cared to listen, which notably didn’t include her father, who’d tuned her out almost immediately. Next to Baudric sat his sister Isolde, who was leaning over, whispering to her brother, trying to cajole him into eating instead of playing with his food. Although she was only sixteen and the youngest of the king’s daughters, she had always been the most serious, taking on the parenting role of her deceased mother.

Their other sisters also ignored Viviane’s poetry. They all found the eldest sibling equally pompous, preferring equally vapid discussions of fashion and boys at court. Not that it ever stopped Viviane from attempting to share whatever her newest work might be.

The king ignored all of this, of course. Although he’d known part of his duty was to sire an heir, he’d never imagined it would result in so many daughters before he finally got the male he’d actually wanted. Worse than being women, they were worthless. Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. Isolde had potential. Of all his children, she had the most potential. Clever, curious, and ambitious, she would have made a fitting heir if she’d been born a man.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t. Worse, since he hadn’t seen her as being valuable, he’d left her in the charge of his wife and her tutors, who’d taken the girl’s curiosity and wit and warped it with notions of charity and weakness. It wasn’t until later, when he’d realized her potential, that Baudric had stepped in and attempted to right their wrongs. She’d never be able to rule, but if she could be disabused of her weaker notions, she might be useful to her brother. It was still too soon to tell what kind of man the boy would be, but it was clear he’d never be as strong as his sister, but he wasn’t hopeless either.

The king was still considering his children in between mouthfuls of the highly spiced meat when the heavy oak doors to the dining room groaned open, admitting Lord Agravaine, his first minister and head of his King’s Council, who hurried across the large room, clearly agitated.

“Your Majesty,” Agravaine said, bowing deeply before his king. “A wyvern just arrived with an urgent message from one of our agents in Starhaven.”

“Yes,” the king said when Agravaine didn’t say anything else.

“The Golden Lion is dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“He is our most reliable agent, my lord, and we’ve known of the king’s illness for some time. Yes. I believe it’s true.”

“Gods,” the king whispered.

He’d been ready to chastise his minister for interrupting him during dinner. This, however, was news worthy of an interruption. Gavric, the Golden Lion, had been a thorn in his side since he’d risen to power not long after Baudric’s own ascension. Unlike Gavric’s own father, who’d been a weak man, Gavric had been strong, decisive, and worst of all, diplomatic. The Sidorians’ greatest weakness was their barons, nobles given too much power, in Baudric’s own estimation, constantly infighting among each other.

Gavric had shown the rare ability to corral all of their avarice and greed, directing them as he saw fit. If it wasn’t for Gavric, their current war probably would never have happened. His father, certainly, wouldn’t have been able to get all of the barons to contribute knights and yeomen to make up the army that currently sat on the eastern coast of Lynese, threatening his entire kingdom.

His death signaled a chance for him to finally end this war, and perhaps even extract victory from it.

“Your Majesty,” Agravaine said, “we should seize this opportunity and strike the Sidorian armies now, while they are leaderless. Drive them back through the Narrows before they can regain their footing.”

Baudric leaned back and stroked his fat neck with one hand, thoughtfully. It would be nice to push their armies into the cursed waters separating their two continents. Nice, but impractical.

“I appreciate your bold approach, but that would be an idiotic choice. The Sidorian army still outnumbers ours, at least until Nicolas returns from Thay. If he’s successful in securing their assistance, or at the very least their mercenaries, then maybe. Until then, we would be throwing our men to slaughter. The king may be dead, but their generals are not. Every report we’ve received suggests both Alistar Everwood and Rowan Pembroke earned their reputations through skill, not mere chance.”

After stopping to swirl his wine, taking a large drink, the king continued, “No, we must be smart. You’re right that their king’s death presents an opportunity, but we must determine how best to use it. While we still cannot face them in open battle, we can apply pressure. Perhaps enough to force them to negotiate on our terms.”

To Baudric’s surprise, Isolde, who he’d all but forgotten about once the news was delivered, spoke up, interrupting his thoughts.

“Father, why not try to negotiate with their new king, once one has been crowned? Save lives through diplomacy rather than more bloodshed?”

Baudric scowled, “Because that would give them time to stabilize. For their new king, or more likely his advisors, since the child Serwyn is next in line to the throne, to rein in the barons and reestablish control. Even if we tried to negotiate now, they would stall us until they ended up on better footing. No, that would be foolish indeed.”

“But, they’re already fighting because they believe you were attempting to get the Alchmara to raid their villages from the north. If we attempt to take advantage of this and apply pressure like you said, wouldn’t it breed more resentment? Make them more determined to continue fighting rather than negotiate for peace?”

“You fail to grasp the intricacies of ruling, child. War is not so simple as you imagine,” the king said, frowning at her before turning to his advisor. “Send word to our allies in the north. Tell them the time has come to increase pressure on Sidor’s barons. Sow seeds of unrest; turn them against this fledgling king. Either their petty squabbles will tear the kingdom apart or, at the very least, force them to accept concessions.”

“Yes, sire,” Agravaine said with a bow before rushing out as quickly as he had come in.

“Please, reconsider,” Isolde pleaded, her voice rising in frustration. “This is just going to further stoke unrest, ultimately leading to more bloodshed for our people.”

Baudric’s scowl deepened at his daughter’s continued protestations. “You’re being naïve. This is why women should never rule. You’re weak-willed and soft, unable to understand the sacrifices that must be made for the sake of our kingdom.”

“The kingdom, or your ambition,” Isolde shot back.

“You go too far, girl,” he growled, his face going purple with rage. “Remove yourself before you sour my appetite further.”

Biting back angry tears, Isolde rose and hurried from the hall, the swish of her skirts punctuating her undignified exit. He watched her with pitiless eyes. He knew she might hate him now, but it was for her own good. Her compassion was a weakness he must purge, if she was ever going to be of use to the kingdom. She would learn in time the harsh necessities of power.

Or perhaps not. Either way, it mattered little. If she didn’t get in line, she still had value. He could ensure a vassal’s loyalty by bargaining her as a wife.

One way or another, she would serve the kingdom.