The Barons' War
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 23
Kenna, River Mark
The servants cleared the last of the breakfast plates as Alyssa Whitton sat alone at the head of the long table in Kenna Keep’s great hall. A cold draft swept through the chamber despite the fires that burned in the hearths at either end. Winter had come to River Mark with the first heavy blanket of snow on the ground, among other things.
It was not normally the time barons would be called to the capital of the duchy, and especially not by the wife of the now-deceased duke of that duchy. But these were not normal times.
She straightened the documents she had been reading as she ate the morning meal, reports of watchtower casualties, supply shortages, and most troubling, the letter from Edmund that one of the barons had passed to her promising pardons to those who abandoned the rebellion. He had tried this before, but his offer was certain to get more interest now that the rebellion looked to be fracturing.
She was tired. Tired of this rebellion and tired of feeling unmoored. Even though Aldric had been away much of the last three years, ever since his brother went to war, he had still been her rock. The person she relied on more than any other, and his absence was still a glaring hole in her soul. And yet, she still had her husband’s work to do. They’d both loved the duchy and their people, and she wouldn’t let his death be the death of what they both loved.
Which is why she remained in the main hall even after breakfast was finished. Waiting.
Baron Marlowe was the first to arrive, his trim beard neatly combed, his clothing immaculate despite the journey from Gallows March. He was shortly joined by Baron Montley, who was much shorter and stouter, looking more like a fisherman than a baron. Both men offered respectful nods but kept their distance, standing rather than taking seats.
“Your Grace,” Marlowe said. “I trust we haven’t kept you waiting long.”
“Not at all,” Alyssa replied. “Please, be seated.”
The door opened again as Baron Fawcett entered the room. He and several of the other barons had arrived the night before, although only Baron Norcross had made it to breakfast. The rest were taking their time joining the group. One by one, they staggered in after each other, some looking annoyed to have been called there, others just tired, but not exceptionally happy.
Alyssa had generally good relations with each of these men, but in times like this, even good relations could be taxed. Alyssa let them talk amongst themselves, waiting until all were seated before she spoke.
“I thank you for answering my summons, especially during Darktide when travel puts you at such risk,” she said as the last man took his seat.
“Hopefully, this won’t take long; I need to be getting back to my barony. Three days past, we lost a watchtower to creatures from the Maw. Twenty good men dead,” Calthorpe said.
“I feel the same. My men are spread thin between village defenses and maintaining the border watchtowers,” Baron Norcross added. “This is hardly the time to come together and discuss politics.”
“I understand your concern, gentlemen, and I promise you I would not have called you here if the matter were not urgent. I’m sure by now that you have all discussed the conversations I’ve had with a few of your number regarding the state of my late husband’s rebellion and the plight of Baron Pembroke, who has now been pushed back to the Thunderhorn. I wanted to bring you all together to properly address our current challenges, your concerns, and to see about getting the River Mark back in the war.”
The last sentence seemed to take the air out of the room, dropping a heavy silence over it until Baron Montley finally spoke.
“The real issue, Your Grace, is that many believe the rebellion died with Duke Aldric. With all respect to his memory, we must consider the reality before us. I know Pembroke returned to pick up his mantle, but he has always seen himself as the duke’s right hand and clear successor, something many of us did not agree with. While I admit your late husband placed much faith in the baron, at no point did any of us agree he stood above us. His presumption is grating at best, and much closer to outright insult. He may be a capable commander and loyal servant, but he is a poor politician. His elevation, even an unofficial one born by our acquiescence, would serve our people poorly.”
Baron Fawcett reached into his doublet and withdrew a folded parchment. He placed it on the table, revealing the broken seal of the Crown.
“Many of us have heard reports that Edmund’s forces grow while the rebellion fractures. Perhaps now is the time to negotiate the best outcome we can. The king offers full pardons to River Mark barons who withdraw from the rebellion.”
“I received a similar offer,” Baron Calthorpe admitted.
“As did I,” said Baron Egerton.
Alyssa stood, placing her palms on the table. “You cannot be seriously considering any offer that man gives you. Even if you could overlook the gross harm Edmund has done to the kingdom and the fact that Edmund almost certainly killed his own nephew, which would be a lot to overlook, he also killed his own brother, your duke and my husband. A crime for which Edmund must pay the highest cost.”
She pushed herself up and began to circle the table, stopping behind each baron as she spoke.
“You cannot be foolish enough to believe any promise he makes. Remember what he promised the peasants before he arrested and assassinated their leaders.” Behind Marlowe, she rested her hand on the back of his chair. “Baron Marlowe, you swore an oath to Aldric and to River Mark when he raised you from a landless knight to lord of Gallows March following the downfall of the last baron.”
She moved to Montley. “Your father served Aldric’s father, and your grandfather before that. The Montleys have stood with the Whittons for three generations. Would you be the last?”
Baron Norcross shifted uncomfortably as she approached, saying, “That oath died with Aldric. We could declare neutrality rather than choose between Edmund and Pembroke.”
“We could wait for spring when the Maw closes before committing either way,” Baron Montley proposed. “See which way the winds blow.”
“Winter neutrality becomes spring subjugation,” Alyssa replied. “Edmund will not forget who stood against him, even if you stand aside now. And what of River Mark in the meantime? What of our people? What of your oaths?”
“You have a point, Your Grace, but the repercussions could be greater than just this rebellion. Pembroke is stubborn and inflexible,” Baron Fawcett said. “I have even heard you make comment on it before.”
“I have,” Alyssa conceded. “And I will be the first to say Pembroke has many faults, but his loyalty to Aldric’s cause has never wavered. Not once. Can any of you claim to match his devotion?”
Baron Dorset, who had remained quiet until now, said, “Exactly. These fine fellows like to speak of pragmatism when they mean cowardice. I say...”
“You say from the safety of your island,” Baron Fawcett cut in. “It’s easy to speak of honor when you face none of the dangers.”
That unlocked the dam that had been holding just below the surface; arguments erupted around the table. Alyssa watched, letting them vent their fears and frustrations.
“My lords, please,” Baron Marlowe said, raising his hand for quiet. When the noise subsided, he turned to Alyssa. “Your Grace, speak plainly. What do you ask of us?”
The chamber fell silent as all eyes turned to her.
“I need for you to join with Pembroke’s forces and reinforce him, at least along the Thunderhorn and its bridges, if not up into Kingsheart. We must protect the River Mark. Without us, the rebellion will fail. Edmund will crush Pembroke, then Sinclair, and then he will come for us. No matter what he promises now.”
Baron Montley frowned. “The rebellion weakens with each passing day. Why commit our forces to a losing cause when we could preserve them for the defense of our own lands?”
“Because if we try to stand alone, we will fall. Kingsheart is too big and has too many resources. We have our natural barriers, but a fraction of the population of the larger duchies. Aside from that, by now, you surely have heard the news that William has returned to Rendalia. That means he will be here with his army in the spring, putting a Whitton back at the front of the rebellion.”
“You mean putting a boy at the head of the rebellion,” Baron Montley said.
“Yes, he is young,” Alyssa admitted. “But Aldric believed in him completely. Even Pembroke deferred to him in Lynese once William proved himself. His return solves your concerns, as I know you have been unwilling to fully support either Pembroke or Sinclair. Aldric once told me that William was the truest successor to Gavric we will see in our generation, and was considering naming him to the throne, once this was all over. If you honor his memory and legacy, if you honor the good years my husband gave you, then you will honor his wishes in this matter.”
Some of the barons grumbled, exchanging uncertain looks, but none openly disagreed.
“But I say again,” she continued. “Giving ourselves over to Edmund’s persuasions is never an option. It will end with the death of River Mark, perhaps all of Sidor. What’s more, even if William returning solves some of our problems, we cannot wait for William and his force to make it back here. We must ensure there is something for him to return to, a rebellion still in progress, which, with the way things are going now, doesn’t look certain. So I ask you, for now, to ensure Pembroke and Garris continue with their rebellion, long enough, at least, to see William return to lead it.”
Again, the barons looked to each other, weighing her words. Baron Marlowe was the first to nod, then Baron Montley. One by one, the others followed, until even Baron Norcross gave a grudging tilt of his head.
“We will honor Duke Aldric’s memory,” Baron Marlowe said at last. “And support Pembroke until Prince William returns.”
One by one, they committed their forces, small numbers that together would make a difference. Alyssa felt the knot in her chest loosen slightly. It was not a victory, but it was a beginning.
“Thank you, my lords,” she said. “My husband would have been proud of your loyalty.”
Baron Fawcett reached for the letter from Edmund, still lying on the table. With deliberate care, he tore it in half.
“It seems I must draft a response to our king,” he said. “I expect it will be rather brief.”
A hint of grim humor passed between the men. They had made their choice, for good or ill. River Mark would stand with the rebellion, and with William Whitton. Spring would tell if they had chosen wisely.
Corlith, Darien Coast, Iron Keep
Garris Sinclair rode through the shattered streets of Corlith, his horse picking its way around debris and bodies. The morning’s battle had left a fresh crop of dead, but these were not the only corpses in the town. Others had lain rotting for days or weeks, some for months since the Icelanders first seized the town seven moons past.
A crude gallows stood in what had once been the market square, the wood weathered but the ropes fresh. Five bodies hung there, civilians by the look of their clothing. Not fighters, just townsfolk who had displeased their invaders in some way. Their faces had turned black, tongues protruding, eyes picked clean by crows.
“Savages,” muttered Sir Halward, who rode at Garris’s side.
Garris said nothing. He had seen worse during the war. Much worse. And he knew the Icelanders held the men from Iron Keep in equal contempt. In war, men on all sides found ways to become beasts.
The stone buildings flanking the main street had been put to the torch, their blackened shells now home only to rats and the wind. A woman’s body lay sprawled in a doorway, her skirts hiked up, throat cut. Garris turned his eyes away. The smell of death hung over everything, so thick he could taste it.
“My lord,” Sir Odran called as Garris approached. “We’ve secured the town. The remaining Icelanders retreated to the keep.”
Garris dismounted, handing his reins to a waiting squire. “Casualties?”
“Sixty-three dead, one hundred and eighty wounded.”
A high toll, but it could have been worse.
The keep ahead of him showed the scars of its capture seven months ago, one tower partially collapsed, sections of the outer wall crumbled. But the main structure remained sound.
“How many of them left?”
“Maybe five hundred, perhaps less. Most of their best fighters fell when we took the outer city. These are the dregs, but dregs with walls.”
“The rear postern gate?” Garris asked.
“Sealed. They collapsed the passage during their retreat.”
Garris studied the keep. An arrow flew from the battlements, landing ten paces short of their position as his men and theirs picked at each other, everyone knowing the last push was coming soon.
“Three groups,” he said finally. “Selgar, take four hundred men and the ram for the main gate. Halward, you’ll lead with the ladders on the eastern wall. Odran, the northern section.”
The captains nodded, understanding their roles.
They dispersed to prepare their forces. Garris walked the line, inspecting the troops and their positioning. The ram, a massive trunk capped with iron, required twenty men to carry it. The ladder teams checked their equipment, securing ropes and testing the wooden rungs. Archers sorted arrows, setting aside fire shafts wrapped in oil-soaked cloth.
Garris found Sir Lewys, a young knight from a minor house near Stormhaven, checking the reserve force’s formation.
“We’ll need to move quickly once a breach appears,” Garris told him. “Have the men ready to run. No heavy shields.”
“Yes, my lord,” Lewys said hesitantly.
Another twenty minutes passed with most of his men just outside of the range of the archers on the wall, while everyone prepared. Finally, everything was ready, and Garris signaled the horn-blower. The deep brass note sounded across the town, and his forces surged forward toward the keep.
The first arrows fell like black rain. Three men dropped immediately. Garris watched from behind a half-collapsed wall as his archers returned fire, targeting the battlements. The air filled with their hiss as they passed overhead. Men fell on both sides.
Selgar’s ram team rushed across the open ground, holding a wooden roof above their heads. Arrows thudded into the protection, but they kept moving. On the eastern side, Halward’s men carried ladders forward at a run, zigzagging to avoid being easy targets.
The northern assault under Odran faced the heaviest fire. They had fewer ladders because the damaged wall made it difficult to get a steady base, and the grapnel teams had less protection, needing both hands free to swing and throw their hooks.
The ram reached the main gate and the carriers positioned themselves. The first blow sounded across the battlefield, a deep boom that shook dust from the gatehouse. The Icelanders above dropped rocks and fired arrows at point-blank range, but the roof held over their heads for protection, held.