The Barons' War
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 26
Chansol River, Lynese
William stepped onto the bridge over the Chansol River, flanked by Isolde and Commander Haverhill. Ahead on the Lynese side stood a large, open-sided tent erected by the Lynesians, adorned with the Imperial banners of Emperor Baudric IX. A petty power move to try to invoke their power, show that they were the ones allowing talks.
William allowed it. It wasn’t real power, it was just pageantry. Guards from both forces stood around the tent, an equal number from both sides.
At the moment, he was more concerned with his wife, who walked a half-step away from him, her back straight as a sword blade, eyes fixed forward. She hadn’t spoken directly to him since they left their camp.
“You’re still angry with me.”
“I wonder what gave you that impression,” she said, her tone making it clear what her words didn’t directly say.
“Why, though? The strategy worked. We managed to get a parley without fighting again, saving many of the lives you’re worried about.”
“By risking thousands of other lives. Innocent lives,” Isolde said, finally looking at him. “Had my brother’s forces seen through your ruse, they would have found a large part of the province’s farmers and shepherds standing in lines with sticks and carved buckets on their heads that looked nothing like spears and armor up close. Any idiot could see that a stone’s throw away.”
“Which is why I kept them much further than a stone’s throw back. Agravaine was already primed for surprises after your hill folks’ attack. He saw exactly what he expected to see, another threat they couldn’t counter.”
“If they had attacked...”
“But they didn’t.”
“If they had attacked,” she continued, ignoring the interruption. “They could have pushed through our actual forces and slaughtered civilians by the hundreds.”
“Would you prefer we let armies march across their villages instead? That never works out well for anyone.”
“I’m not debating the outcome, William. I’m questioning the risk you took with my people’s lives without consulting me.”
Commander Haverhill cleared his throat pointedly. William had been lost in the argument and hadn’t noticed how close he’d gotten to the other side. They were close enough now that the Lynesian guards might overhear their conversation.
“We’ll discuss this later,” William said quietly.
Isolde’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. We will.”
The Lynesian guards parted as they approached, faces impassive beneath their polished helmets.
The tent’s interior was sparse but formal. A long table dominated the center, with chairs arranged on either side. Behind the opposite side stood Lord Agravaine, tall and imperious, wearing dark blue robes trimmed with silver. The young Emperor Baudric IX sat beside him in a high-backed chair adorned with the Imperial crest, looking both bored and petulant. Three other men, advisors by their dress, stood nearby, along with a scribe seated at the end of the table.
“Prince William of the House Whitton and commander of the Sidorian forces in Rendalia,” announced a herald in Lynesian blue. “Princess Isolde Montborne of Rendalia.”
William noted there was no mention of Isolde’s Lynesian heritage. A calculated slight to be sure. He ignored it and pulled out a chair for Isolde before taking the seat beside her, with Haverhill standing at his shoulder.
“Let us dispense with pleasantries,” Agravaine said. “We are here to resolve the unlawful occupation of Rendalia Province by Sidorian forces, and to address the matter of Princess Isolde’s crimes against the Imperial throne.”
“Traitor,” Baudric said, his voice cracking slightly. “You poisoned our father and stole what was rightfully mine.”
Isolde did not flinch. “I did no such thing, as you well know.”
“The courts have determined otherwise,” Agravaine interjected. “Our demands are simple. The immediate return of Rendalia Province to Imperial control, and the surrender of the princess to face Imperial justice for regicide and treason.”
William waited a beat, until Agravaine looked to one of his aides, clearly wondering if the Sidorians had even heard them, before saying, “I believe you’re mistaken about the balance of power here, Lord Agravaine. We both know this parley exists only because you recognize your forces cannot match the experience or numbers of the army across that river.”
“Careful, boy,” one of the advisors said. “You address the First Minister of Lynese.”
“And you address a Prince of Sidor in line to the throne of one of the greatest kingdoms in the Shattered Lands, not an appointed bureaucrat,” William replied without looking at the man. “Still, I have heard what you offer and can only say, if these are your terms, we can dispense with this charade and settle matters on the battlefield.”
“There’s no need for rashness,” Agravaine said, raising a hand to silence his advisor. “I merely present our starting position. Perhaps you’re new to diplomacy, Prince William, but negotiations begin with each side stating their ideal terms. We proceed from there.”
“Then let me counter,” William said. “Sidor retains Rendalia. You withdraw all claims against Princess Isolde. In return, I don’t march to Valemonde to repeat what happened during my last visit, except this time, I will be joined by hill tribe allies who would have free rein on your plains, which remained largely untouched last time.”
Agravaine’s expression shifted from haughty confidence to irritation.
“That is an insult.”
“No. Demanding surrender when you’ve realized you couldn’t defeat us militarily is an insult. I, on the other hand, offer minimal demands on Lynese. Rendalia will accept a peace treaty bound under the new emperor. I’ll reduce by half the remaining payments owed to Sidor under the previous treaty. The boundaries return to those established before, with Sidor keeping what was already granted. It is a good deal for Lynese. Sidor walks away exactly as it started, but Lynese gets to cut the indemnity in half. A win-win situation.”
Isolde spoke up. “Except you must also add guarantees for the hill tribes who aided our defense. The Dead Man’s Hills will become their sovereign territory, protected under treaty with Rendalia and considered part of Sidor for defensive purposes.”
Emperor Baudric snorted. “Now she speaks for savages. How fitting.”
“Quiet,” Agravaine said sharply, then corrected himself. “Your Majesty, please allow me to handle the negotiations.”
The boy emperor sank back in his chair, sulking.
“That is unacceptable,” Agravaine continued. “Rendalia rightfully belongs to the Empire. However, we might consider a compromise. Rendalia becomes a vassal state to Lynese, with internal autonomy but fealty to the emperor. A generous offer, given the circumstances.”
“No,” William said flatly. “Rendalia remains part of Sidor, or there is no deal. However, I will end all remaining indemnity payments in exchange for a final, one-time payment to Rendalia itself, not to Sidor.”
Agravaine’s face flushed. “You expect us to pay you? That’s an insult.”
“I expect compensation for the cost of defending against your unprovoked attack,” William replied calmly. “Additionally, we require trade concessions, specifically regarding timber exports and fishing rights in the eastern bays.”
“This is absurd. Perhaps we should end these talks and let our armies decide the matter.”
“By all means. When your forces break against our lines, and the hill tribes burn your farms, how long before the people of Lynese question why their emperor sacrificed so many lives for his pride? When we march on Valemonde, will your citizens welcome us as liberators from a child tyrant who emptied their villages of men and filled them with widows? If Lynese as a whole wishes to become a province of Sidor, I would be happy to oblige.”
The tent fell silent. Emperor Baudric looked uncertain for the first time, glancing at Agravaine with questions in his eyes.
Agravaine glowered at William and stood up dramatically, causing Baudric to scramble to his feet. For a moment, he thought the Lynesian might just make good on his threat, calling William’s bluff, and he had to put a hand to Isolde’s arm as she began to show outward signs of nervousness.
Thankfully, Agravaine only stepped away from the table to huddle with his advisors, conferring. After several minutes, he and the boy emperor returned to the table.
“We might consider terms closer to your proposal,” Agravaine said stiffly. “Rendalia remains with Sidor for now, with the Chansol River as the permanent boundary. All indemnity payments cease, but we make no additional payment to you.”
“Half the original final payment,” William countered. “And specific protections for the Dead Man’s Hills as sovereign territory for the hill tribes, with Rendalia guaranteeing their security.”
“Those savages raid our settlements,” one of the advisors objected. “We cannot formalize their right to...”
“The treaty will include provisions preventing raids on Lynesian settlements,” William interrupted. “But also stipulations limiting Lynesian military movements near the hills. Rendalia will address any hill tribe incursions into Lynese territory.”
Haverhill leaned down to whisper in William’s ear. William nodded.
“We also require guarantees that Lynese will drop all claims against Princess Isolde and cease all propaganda regarding her supposed crimes,” William added.
Agravaine looked to the young emperor, who scowled but nodded almost imperceptibly.
“We can agree to such terms,” Agravaine said, “provided the hill tribes also cease all hostile actions against Lynesian settlements and patrols.”
“Agreed,” William said.
There were still details to haggle over, specific wording in the agreement, but the Lynesians had blinked. Now, it was just a matter of process.
Twyver, Barony of Greenwood, River Mark
“Hold them!” Pembroke shouted as another volley of arrows flew overhead from the archers he’d stationed in the damaged tannery building to his right.
Three Crown men fell, but five more took their places. A stone-faced captain with a pockmarked face led them as the Crown soldiers surged forward.
They crashed against the barricade like a wave against a crumbling seawall. Wood splintered. A cart toppled. The Crown soldiers poured through the gap, cutting down two of Pembroke’s men before the rest could close ranks.
Pembroke drew his sword and charged in. There weren’t enough knights in this section for anyone else to try and stem the flow. A Crown soldier lunged at him with a spear. Pembroke knocked it aside and drove his blade through the man’s chest. Blood sprayed across his gauntlet.
“My lord!” Sir Kendrick, one of his household knights who’d just returned from dealing with another breach, pulled at Pembroke’s arm. “We cannot hold here. The position is compromised.”
Pembroke turned his head to see Crown soldiers already pushing through an alley to their right, threatening to cut them off from the rest of the town.
“Sound the retreat,” Pembroke ordered. “Fall back to Tanners Row.”
The horn blew three short blasts. His men disengaged in groups of five, two falling back while three covered their retreat. Arrows continued to rain down from the upper floors of the buildings, buying them precious seconds.
In the shadow of a half-collapsed bakery, Pembroke found Captain Thorne, his face streaked with dirt and blood.
“They’ve taken all of the northern quarter,” Thorne reported, his voice hoarse from shouting commands.
“How many men have we lost?” Pembroke asked.
“Twenty, maybe thirty. Too many.”
Pembroke nodded grimly. The defense of Twyver was costing them dearly, but the town had changed hands too many times already. Each battle left it more damaged, more broken. The once-proud market square was now a collection of burned-out husks. The guild hall’s slate roof had partially collapsed during the last assault. The old stone bridge spanning the river had three missing arches.
“Form the line here,” Pembroke ordered, pointing to where Tanners Row intersected with the broader cobblestone street that led to the old market. “Put the spearmen in front, archers on the flanks.”
The men moved quickly, getting into position. Behind them, others grabbed furniture and even doors from nearby buildings, dragging them into the street to form another hasty barricade.
“They’ll try to flank us again,” Thorne said.
“I know.” Pembroke gestured to Sir Kendrick. “Take ten men and secure that tavern. Don’t let them outflank us on the east.”
The knight nodded and selected his men. They rushed toward the three-story tavern with its sagging timber frame and kicked in the door.
The Crown soldiers appeared at the far end of the street, their numbers swollen with reinforcements. Their front ranks bristled with spears and pikes. Behind them, their own archers nocked arrows.