Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) Read online

  Maklavir glanced out over the valley. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Serentha, I suppose?”

  Kendril paused a moment. He swallowed. More specks of rain fell on his raised hood. “Serentha accepted Whitmore’s marriage proposal.”

  The diplomat nodded, the feather on his cap bobbing up and down. “Ah. Then they are to be married, then?” He looked up towards the sky. “Assuming, of course, that Bathsby doesn’t kill either of them first.”

  “Yes,” Kendril replied sharply. “Whitmore will be King of Llewyllan.”

  The rain was coming down in a steady drizzle now, soaking the grass around them.

  Maklavir looked over at Kendril and lowered his voice. “You love her, don’t you?”

  Kendril gave a half-snarl. “You can’t love someone you can’t touch.”

  The diplomat raised a finger. “On the contrary, it is one of man’s inherent curses to desire the unattainable.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You’re not made of stone, Kendril, regardless of how many vows you might take.”

  The Ghostwalker continued to stare straight ahead, his face unmoving. “It doesn’t change anything. I almost left a man to die out there today for a woman I can’t even hold.”

  Maklavir crossed his arms and huddled against the cold. “You didn’t leave him, though. You brought him back.”

  Kendril looked away. “I might just as well have left him.”

  Maklavir gave an exasperated sigh. He took off his cap and ran a hand through his damp hair. “What exactly do you want from me, Kendril? Absolution? You’d be better off talking to Joseph. He’s a closer thing to a priest than I’ll ever be.” He looked over at Kendril, then replaced his cap on his head. “But if you want to know what I think, then here it is. You’re human, Kendril, just like the rest of us, and none of us are perfect. If you think your little jealous dilemma is unique to you then I have news. It’s not.”

  The Ghostwalker turned his head towards the diplomat, but said nothing.

  Maklavir continued, his voice softer. “You had a choice, Kendril. You could have left Whitmore to die, but you didn’t, and that’s what matters in the end. It’s only because of you that’s he still alive at all.”

  Kendril’s mouth twisted. “I’m not a good man, Maklavir.”

  The diplomat gave a nonchalant shrug. “I didn’t say you were. I’m not a good man, either. Neither is Joseph. Neither is Lord Whitmore, for that matter.” He uncrossed his arms. “We are the sum of the decisions we make, Kendril. Sometimes we choose right, and sometimes we choose wrong. But in the end it’s the choice that matters, I think.” He smiled, and gave the Ghostwalker a cheerful slap on the shoulder. “Buck up, old chum. If you want something to worry about, there are plenty of more pressing items. Like the fact that we’ll all probably be killed when we get to Balneth.”

  Kendril said nothing, but the shadow of a smile formed on his face.

  Joseph came running up suddenly, out of breath.

  Kendril pushed away from the rock.

  “Lord Whitmore is conscious,” the scout said. “He wants to see you.”

  The command post had been set up on the highest point of the valley, overlooking the winding road back to Balneth. Sir Mulcher was outside the command tent, fingering his mustache as he talked quietly with a subordinate officer. He nodded as he saw Kendril walking up, and folded up a map he had been holding in his hands.

  “You must be the Ghostwalker,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I hear we have you to thank for covering our backsides this morning. If that flank had collapsed we wouldn’t have stood a chance. Quite an heroic thing you did.”

  Kendril glanced over at a group of men hitching up some cannons. “I had a lot of help,” he said. “Are we heading back to Balneth?”

  Mulcher nodded, clearing his throat. “Yes, indeed. Lord Whitmore is in the tent. He wants to speak with you.”

  Kendril nodded, then walked over to the tent.

  Lord Whitmore was inside, propped up on a chair. One side of his face was horribly bruised, and a large cut ran down over his left eye. His left arm was bandaged all the way up to the shoulder and held in a makeshift sling. Still, he managed to smile as Kendril came in, then waved the Ghostwalker to a chair.

  “Kendril! Come in, come in. Do have a seat.”

  The Ghostwalker raised a hand. “No thanks. I’ll stand.”

  Lord Whitmore leaned forward, grunting in pain. “I hear you’re the one who pulled me out of that valley. I owe you my life.”

  Kendril looked away awkwardly. “Don’t mention it.”

  Lord Whitmore smiled. “More than that, I heard you were the one who prevented my regiment from collapsing. It seems you are spoiled for heroics, my good man.” His smile faded. “You were right about the ambush, and I was a fool not to listen to you. Many lives were lost today that could have been saved.”

  Kendril looked over at the nobleman. “Bathsby has to be stopped. There’s no other way.”

  Whitmore rose to his feet, using his good arm to push himself up. “If what you say is true, Kendril, then he holds Castle Dunhill, and probably all of Balneth as well.”

  “Then we’ll have to take them by storm.”

  “A siege?” Whitmore gave an ironic chuckle. “Have you seen Dunhill? A hundred men could hold that fortress against twenty thousand for years. And to reach the castle we must first breach the walls of Balneth, which are undoubtedly held against us. I do not have the manpower for it, Kendril. Even if I had not just lost so many men, three regiments would not be enough.”

  The Ghostwalker frowned. “Surely there is someone inside Balneth who will help us? One of the nobles, perhaps, or some of the townspeople?”

  Lord Whitmore sighed. He smoothed down a map that lay on the table. “Perhaps. But I do not know how tight Bathsby’s grip on the city is, or what lies he has fed the people.” He turned, grinding his teeth together. “How could I have been such a fool? Bathsby set me up from the beginning, and I was blind to all of it.”

  Kendril rubbed his chin and glanced down at the map. “Are there any allies we could draw on?”

  Whitmore sniffed derisively, and sank into a nearby chair. “Not of significance. Sir Mulching and Sir Fielding are both loyal to the King, of course, but I cannot speak for the other officers. There are some regiments stationed up near the Calbraithan border, but their loyalties are likely to be more with Bathsby than the Royal Family.” He adjusted his wounded arm, and winced as he did. “Lord Bathsby has great influence in the army. Far more than I do.”

  “He’s counting on that, no doubt,” said Kendril. His eyes roamed over the map. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already recalled the regiments he knows he can depend on. They’ll most likely be joining him at Balneth to strengthen his position.”

  Lord Whitmore leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “You see? It is hopeless. And I cannot find help outside of Llewyllan. Calbraith is our sworn enemy, and Arbela would never assist in restoring any monarch to the throne. They would most likely support Bathsby.”

  The Ghostwalker tapped his fingers against his arm. “Merewith?”

  Lord Whitmore leaned forward, cradling his wounded arm. “Even if I could convince the Emperor to help, which I doubt, he’s too far away.” He sighed heavily. “I must march on Balneth. It will end there, one way or another.”

  “It will end in our deaths,” said Kendril. “There’s no way you can take that city.”

  “And what would you have me do?” Whitmore’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “I know the risks, Kendril. But I have no other choice.”

  The Ghostwalker lowered his head, his face clenched in thought. “Then we should leave right away,” he said finally. “We don’t have a moment to lose.”

  Lord Whitmore gave the Ghostwalker a startled glance. “I wasn’t expecting you to come, Kendril. You’ve done more than enough for us already.”

  Kendril fingered one of his pistols absently. “I still have some unfinished busine
ss with Lord Bathsby.”

  “As you will.” Lord Whitmore pulled out a pocket watch, and stared for a moment at the face. He laughed and threw it back in his pocket. “Busted. It must have broken when I fell off my horse. Oh, well. We’ll leave tomorrow, at first light.”

  Kendril shook his head emphatically. “We should head out today, as soon as possible. Every moment we lose could cost us.”

  Lord Whitmore raised a hand. “I understand, Kendril, but nightfall is in a couple hours, and my men are exhausted. I cannot expect them to fight a battle here, then march them at top speed without rest to fight another. Not to mention all the wounded we’re still caring for. This army will lose even more men if we move too quickly.” He tilted his head. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, I think you could use with some rest yourself.”

  Kendril gripped the edge of the map table. “Speed is more important than rest. We should move now.”

  “I disagree. My men need to rest, Kendril, and so do you. That’s my final word on the matter.”

  Kendril scowled, but said nothing. He turned and exited the command tent.

  Outside the air was freshly scented after the falling rain, though the sky was beginning to turn dark with the approach of evening. He stood for a moment, the cold wind tugging at his cloak.

  Was Serentha still alive? There was no way to know for sure, and Kendril knew full well that the chances of her surviving this whole affair were slim. Then again, he corrected himself, the chances of any of them surviving this were slim. He didn’t know how any of this would end, but he still had to try to help Serentha.

  He only hoped that he could.

  Chapter 13

  Kendril awoke to the sound of a trumpet blaring through the encampment, calling the troops to arms.

  He blinked his eyes, groaning as he rubbed the grit out of them. In the east the sun was just edging over the line of low hills. Out in that direction was the sea, though it was too far to see from here. The wind had a sharp bite to it this morning, but the dark clouds from the day before had been reduced to mere tatters that drifted by in the skies above.

  He had slept like the dead. Truth be told, he hadn’t even felt tired when he had lain down on the wool blanket by the fire. That had been the last thing he had remembered until just now, as the cold rays of dawn slanted over the hillside around him. His body ached, especially his left side, which gave an occasional protest of pain when he moved too suddenly. Kendril rubbed his temples, trying to clear the fog from his mind.

  “Up and about, I see?” asked Joseph pleasantly from where he sat a few feet away, his feet stretched out by the fire. “Coffee’s over there. I managed to procure some sausage, if you’d like some.”

  The scent of the cooking meat caused Kendril’s mouth to water. He pushed the blanket aside, shaking the dew from it. “Sounds great.” He gave Joseph a crooked grin. “Up kind of early, aren’t you?”

  “Early?” Joseph scoffed, shaking the pan with the sizzling sausage around. “It’s practically afternoon.”

  Kendril got to his feet, stretching. A few feet away Maklavir was still asleep, snoring loudly. The Ghostwalker shook his head.

  Joseph chuckled. He checked the sausage with a fork from his pack. “How about some breakfast?”

  The Ghostwalker nodded gratefully, and moved over to the fire. “Where’s Kara?”

  “She was up almost as early as me. I’m not quite sure where she went off to. To be honest, I think she just wanted to be alone for awhile.”

  Kendril drew a knife, and stabbed it into one of the sausages. “She’s trouble.”

  Joseph gave his companion a cutting glance. “I think you’ve misjudged her, Kendril.”

  The Ghostwalker took a bite of the sausage, and wiped the grease from his chin. “She’s a thief and a bandit,” he said shortly. “What’s there to misjudge?”

  Joseph took one of the sausages himself, sticking it with his fork. “She risked her life taking that castle gate, you know. If it hadn’t been for her none of us would have gotten out of there alive.”

  Kendril smirked. “Speak for yourself.”

  The scout sighed and looked over the crackling fire at his friend. “I think she’s earned our trust, don’t you?”

  The Ghostwalker took another bite of the sausage. “Trust is a dangerous thing. It’s liable to get you killed.”

  Joseph chewed thoughtfully on his sausage. “You asked her to come with us.”

  Kendril shrugged. “She has a keen eye, and handles a bow like no one I’ve ever seen before. I figured she might be useful.”

  Joseph snorted. “Useful? So she’s just a commodity to you? Someone to help you with what you’re doing?”

  The Ghostwalker finished his sausage. “I told her that her best chance of taking revenge on Sir Reginald was with us. I wasn’t lying. She knew what she was getting into when she came along.”

  The scout hardened his eyes. “But you still don’t trust her?”

  “No,” said Kendril in a weighted tone, “I still don’t trust her. Why should I? You say that I’m using her? Well if I am than she’s using me and all of us just as much. We’re her best chance for revenge, and she knows it. That’s the only reason she’s still here.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Then ask her yourself.” Kendril motioned over Joseph’s shoulder, then stabbed for another sausage with his knife.

  The scout turned around to see Kara coming up through the camp, her raised hood covering her face. She lowered it as she got closer.

  “Breakfast?” asked Joseph kindly. He held out the pan towards her.

  She nodded without smiling. “Thanks.” She sat down by the fire, rubbing the back of her neck. “Word around the camp seems to be that we’re leaving within the hour.”

  “I know,” said Kendril grimly. “Back to Balneth.”

  Lord Bathsby stood like a statue, his face set towards the rising sun. He rested his hands on the wall of the parapet, feeling the wind on his face as he looked out over the expanse of hills below him. Behind him he could hear the sounds of the castle guard changing posts.

  “My dear Lord Bathsby,” came a traipsing voice from behind him, “you are up rather early.”

  He turned around.

  Lady Bronwyn was coming down the walkway from the eastern wall. Her black hair wisped around her face, caught by the wind.

  “Just enjoying the sunrise, my lady,” Bathsby said. “And how is the princess this morning?”

  “Sleeping,” Bronwyn said, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “I can’t control her forever, you know. Her will is difficult to contain.”

  Bathsby turned back around. He took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. “You don’t have to control her forever. Just until after the wedding ceremony.”

  Bronwyn’s eyes flashed. “You intend to go through with this, then?”

  Bathsby’s fingers curled on the hard stone. “There is no other way. The nobles are a nuisance, but they can ruin everything if they resist me now. When they see Serentha and I wed, there will be no question as to my legitimacy as King.”

  “And what about after the wedding?”

  The nobleman sighed. He curled up his hand and looked over his nails. “After the wedding we have no need for the princess any more, do we?”

  Bronwyn arched an eyebrow. “You intend to kill her?”

  Lord Bathsby gave a startled look. “Certainly not. She will be killed by assassins sent by Lord Whitmore and his conspirators, who will be hunted down and executed by Sir Reginald and the Royal Guard directly afterwards.”

  Bronwyn gave a tight little laugh. “That’s your grand plan? Don’t you think it’s a bit contrived?”

  Bathsby smiled without warmth. “It will work. I will be King, and Llewyllan will be mine.”

  Bronwyn held up a finger. “Ours,” she corrected softly.

  The nobleman curled his hand around her finger, and pulled her closer with a smile. “Ours.”

 
The army broke camp about an hour after breakfast, and began the long march back to the north.

  There was no rain at first, but the ragged clouds gradually increased until the sky was covered in a gray blanket. The soldiers were strangely silent as they marched, weighed down by an unspoken menace. About mid-day a light rain began, soaking the troops. Still they marched, stopping neither for food nor the travails of the wounded.

  Lord Whitmore rode at the head of the line, his face pale from the pain of his injury. Sir Mulcher rode beside him, glancing worriedly at his commander from time to time. Behind them the rest of their ragged troops tromped through the churning mud, their eyes on the path ahead of them.

  The small band of companions that had escaped from Balneth rode together near the rear of the column, their spirits barely rising out of the splattering puddles in their path. Maklavir tried to tell a few jokes to lighten their mood, but quickly retreated into his own thoughts, looking often to the north for the first sign of Balneth. Kara rode beside the diplomat, her hood thrown over her bedraggled red hair. She didn’t speak, but on her face was a look of torment.

  Joseph rode behind her, his face full of concern for the young woman. He periodically wiped the rain from his eyes, trying to think of something to say. Instead he remained silent, his horse tromping relentlessly through the mud.

  Kendril came last of all, riding atop Simon. The Ghostwalker’s hood was slick with the falling rain, and mud spattered his boots and cloak. His rifle was in his hands, and his eyes watched the slopes of the dark hills around them carefully, as if expecting an attack at any moment. But for all his watchfulness, his mind kept drifting on to other thoughts.

  The sense of gloom over the entire landscape was almost palpable. Every last soldier dragging their pike behind them seemed to know that something was wrong.

  They stopped late that evening, making camp by a small lake. The Dagger Hills were receding slowly behind them, and the landscape was beginning to even out into alternating forests and fields. Many of the men breathed a silent sigh of relief once they were clear of the rocky terrain behind them. The rain continued, but some of the oppressiveness in the air seemed to lift.