The Barons' War
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 15
Rendalia City, Rendalia, Lynese
Rendalia’s walls were gray stone against a grayer sky. For Isolde, slumped weary in the saddle, they marked the end of a desperate flight from Valemonde, after days spent pushing horses through sodden fields and skirting villages by night to shake pursuers that shadowed them the entire way to the border. Galer and the two men who had escaped with her looked just as spent. Ahead lay the keep. Home, of a sort.
They passed the outer gates unchallenged, the guards barely noting their arrival. Weary travelers were common enough, and to the passing glance, with Galer and his men having shed their guard livery long ago, they were just like any of the other groups.
Although Isolde thought perhaps they realized something, as one of the men’s heads whipped around just as she rode around the corner into the courtyard proper.
As Galer swung down from his horse, a child’s cry cut through the noise of the courtyard.
“Papa!”
A small girl came running from the stables, an older woman hurrying after her. Galer seemed to freeze for a moment, his eyes going wide, before dropping to his knees and opening his arms. The girl collided with him, his arms wrapping around her and squeezing her tight. The woman, presumably Linhi, reached them, hand to her mouth, tears marking paths through the grime on her cheeks as she knelt next to them, touching Galer’s arm.
“I didn’t ... I didn’t think...” Linhi choked out between sobs, hiding her face against his shoulder.
Galer held them, murmuring words too low for Isolde to catch. He looked up, meeting Isolde’s eyes, his expression saying everything he needed to say. Galer stood up, lifting the child off the ground with him, and put his hand behind his wife’s back, facing them toward Isolde.
“Linhi, this is Princess Isolde.”
Linhi dropped to her knees at Isolde’s feet, grabbing her hand.
“Your Highness, thank you. May the ancients bless you. You found work for me ... a place for my child ... you saved us.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Linhi. Your husband has repaid everything and more. I have a debt to your family I can never repay.”
“Your Highness...” Galer started to say, when an older man in the livery of the Wyvern Hills came hurrying up, followed by the gate guard who had done a double-take at her.
She knew him, or at least his face if not his name. The majordomo of the household, brought over by Pembroke from his barony to oversee the day-to-day matters in the keep just after the end of the war.
“Your Highness,” he said, bowing hastily. “We ... we did not expect your return so soon.”
“And yet, I am here,” Isolde said, exhaustion wiping away any attempt at courtesy. “I must speak with Baron Pembroke. Now.”
“I ... that is, Baron Pembroke is not here, Your Highness.”
“What do you mean not here? Where is he?”
“He sailed for Sidor, Your Highness. Over a month ago. Shortly after you left for Valemonde. We received word of troubles in the River Mark and the East, and he was forced to travel quickly.”
Over a month. Pembroke gone nearly the whole time.
“Who did he leave in command? Who holds Rendalia?”
“Commander Haverhill, Your Highness. Baron Pembroke charged him with overseeing military matters and to act in his stead until Prince William returns.”
“Has there been any word of William?”
“I do not think so, Your Highness, but I am not informed about such things.”
“Find quarters for these two men,” Isolde said to the guard who’d accompanied the majordomo, before turning to Galer. “Spend some time with your wife and child. I will speak to Commander Haverhill about finding a place for all three of you.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Galer said, inclining his head. The other two men did likewise.
With a wave of her arm, the majordomo led her to the keep and up to one of the main rooms that Pembroke had turned into a council chamber.
An annoyed-looking Commander Haverhill stood by the window, peering down at the square below, an irritated expression on his face. To be fair, while he always looked annoyed, this time, it seemed even more so.
“Your Highness,” he said as he realized who had just walked into the room, quickly smothering an expression of surprise. “I was not expecting you. We’d had no word that you were on the way back from Valemonde.”
“I am told Baron Pembroke left you in command,” she said, not addressing his statement directly.
She was too tired, and the last two months had been too trying for her to be diplomatic.
“Yes, Your Highness. My mandate is to oversee defenses and maintain order until Prince William returns.”
“Fine. Then I require a report. How is the army for readiness? Also, what is the news from Sidor or from Prince William?”
Haverhill hesitated and then said, “Your Highness, with respect ... the maintenance of the garrison is well in hand. I am glad you are here. The charity set up by your husband has, I fear, been poorly managed.”
Isolde knew a dismissal when she heard one. It was respectful, to be sure, but it was still a dismissal.
“Commander. I am not here to see to charities. I am here because Rendalia, filled with my former and current people and under my husband’s charge, is in danger. My husband is missing. Duke Aldric is murdered. Baron Pembroke has taken his men to Sidor. That leaves me. I appreciate your service and rely on your guidance and wisdom, as I did Baron Pembroke, but my duties here are clear. As are yours. Now, report.”
Haverhill’s jaw muscles worked. He met her stare for a long count, his face unreadable. Through the window, she could hear the shouts of men training. She waited silently. If she backed down now, she would give away any authority she had, and this would be harder a second time.
But she knew him. He might be Sidorian, raised under a different culture, but soldiers were soldiers. They were used to following orders and living inside a strict hierarchy. One that, in this case, put him squarely below her.
“Baron Pembroke sailed for the Iron Straits about a week after you left,” he said after relenting. “Took his household guard and another hundred men loyal enough to The Mark to follow him. Word is that the rebellion is fracturing. The Eastern and Iron keep barons are squabbling amongst themselves and the bulk of the River Mark barons have retreated south of the Thunderhorn. Everyone is casting blame on each other for Aldric’s death and trying to position themselves to succeed him. The baron thought he might be able to reinforce the situation and continue what the duke started.”
“And has he?”
“I don’t know, Your Highness. There has been no word since he landed. Wyverns are fast, but war makes roads unsafe, and reporting usually goes the other way. Barons do not usually send updates to commanders.”
“I see, and so where do you send your updates?”
“Lanmouth, my lady. They are closer to the situation and are able to pass the reports on from there.”
“And what of William? I understand he has still not returned.”
“No, my lady. We have attempted to find him. We sent out scout ships as far north and east as we dared without getting entangled with the Crown’s ships. We’ve discussed sending wyverns to Werna, but there was a thought it would show weakness if word of his disappearance got out, especially here in Lynese.”
“I am sorry to say, word has already gotten out. They are aware he is missing.”
“I had thought there was a chance, but there was also a thought that, if he was found and had limited support, his father might take advantage of the situation. We know he has a large number of agents out in places like Inos and Werna. If they catch wind and are put on alert, he could be captured ... or worse.”
“Hmm. Yes, that is a good point,” she said, considering.
From what she knew of his father, he might very well do something like that.
“I appreciate the update of the situation. I need you to begin preparing the army for movement to the border with Lynese. In this, I will rely on your expertise to ensure it is as quick and efficient as possible.”
Haverhill’s eyebrows rose. “Your Highness? The treaty holds, does it not? Perhaps I should send word to the baron first to ... get his counsel on the best course of action.”
“You yourself just told me you couldn’t contact him directly, that the message would have to go through intermediaries, which is something we do not have time for. My father is dead and my brother, who now holds the throne, has declared the treaty null and void. War is coming again, Commander. And it’s coming soon.”
“How ... why would they start the war again after they lost so badly last time, my lady? Surely they wouldn’t be so reckless.”
“They lost at the hands of William, Pembroke, and other knights, all of whom are missing or on the continent. You are a good commander, but you have not led armies, and my brother knows that. Or rather, Lord Agravaine, who has control over my brother and his eyes set on setting his name and place in history by regaining their lost territory, knows it. They mean to take Rendalia. To make matters more complicated, they have named me traitor, accused me of manipulating my father, and ordered my death. I barely escaped Valemonde. So, Commander, we can send a wyvern, wait weeks for Pembroke’s reply, if it arrives at all, while my brother’s armies push across the border and onto your doorstep. Or, we can begin to prepare now and hopefully put up enough of a barrier to make the fight not worth it. Which do you think is the wiser course of action?”
He looked defiant for a moment, but she could see him considering. Concern yielded to acceptance soon enough, as all condescension dropped from his voice for the first time in this conversation.
“You are right, Your Highness. Forgive me. Waiting is folly. I will see to it at once,” he said, saluting.
“Good. Quickly, and quietly. No need for panic among the nobility until we are prepared to move and have the pieces in place. Agravaine most likely has agents in the city, so best not to alert him to our movements until we have to.” She paused. “After ... there is a man, Galer, late of the Imperial Guard, and two of his associates. They aided my escape and I promised them a place. Find suitable work for them. They are loyal.”
“It will be done, Your Highness.” Haverhill saluted again, turned, and left the room.
Isolde stood alone in the quiet. She released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. While she had been focused, she had forgotten her exhaustion, but now that things were in motion, the bone-deep weariness had returned. She went to the window, watched the men drilling below. Her army, now, she thought. Sidorians, most of them, veterans of the war against her people.
This was going to be a challenge. Followed by a fight against her own people.
Paranafn, Werna
The ship wallowed into the wide harbor of Paranafn, listing hard every time the wake from another ship washed over it.
The three weeks of the crossing had taken its toll. The crew bailed against the constant ingress of seawater in endless rotation, and the sails had barely held. They’d used nearly every spare they’d made during the first week of the journey. It had been a good idea and worked to a degree, but the patched material was just not strong enough to hold up against the winds across the sea.
They had been forced to continually resew parts of the torn makeshift sails, combining parts together, the cloth becoming less and less workable every day. Now, they were hardly tatters, flapping in the wind.
It was honestly a miracle they’d made it this far.
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