Chapter 7

Waldar Plains, Iron Keep

Blood and mud caked the hem of Garris Sinclair’s surcoat as he watched the end of the battle from the rise on Waldar Plains. The Icelanders were running, pursued by his cavalry, toward the hills in the distance.

The foolish ones, at least. None of the men running for the hills would make it to a place of relative safety. There was just too much ground to cover with his knights pursuing them in the open. The smarter of the northerners threw down their weapons and knelt in surrender.

He considered the Darrien Hills looming in the north. Until now, they had the Icelanders on their heels, but this would be the real challenge. Just as the hills had slowed down the Icelanders during their invasion, they would be a difficult nut for him to crack.

They offered the enemy strong defensive ground with steep approaches, narrow passes, and clear views of anyone attempting to climb the slopes. Taking them would cost in blood.

“A good day’s work, my lord,” said Halward, captain of Garris’s guard.

“We did enough, but there is still much to do. Gather your knights when they finish with the stragglers. We need to plan our approach to those hills.”

Halward nodded and turned to relay the orders, but a commotion at the rear of their line caught both men’s attention. A lone rider approached at breakneck speed, his horse lathered and heaving with exertion.

Not that anyone tried to stop him. Sir Odran was one of the highest knights in Garris’s service and a trusted friend. The speed with which he hurried toward them, however, was concerning.

The knight reined his horse to a stop at the base of the rise and dismounted hurriedly.

“My lord,” Odran said. A message from Duke Aldric’s camp. He ... he’s dead, my lord.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Every man within hearing was stunned to the point of silence.

“Dead? How?” Garris finally demanded.

“Murdered, my lord. By Sir Alistair Everwood. He had stayed after a council of war and they were speaking alone in the duke’s tent. Alistair’s men were on guard duty that night, and outside the tent. He was the last one seen with the duke, who had his throat slit. By the time the duke’s body was found, Everwood had fled with most of his knights. He had at least a three-hour head start, and he headed toward Starhaven.”

“This is a disaster. Who has taken command of his army?”

“That’s the problem, my lord. After learning of the duke’s death, the eastern barons began to withdraw. Several contingents have already departed for their home territories.”

“Cowards,” Garris muttered.

“Word is they’re positioning defensively along Glasswell Lake and up to Devonport. The other barons were forced to retreat with them or be left exposed, extended and unsupported. The army is fragmenting. Barons who pledged to Duke Aldric claim their oaths died with him. Others fear continuing without a clear leader. The coalition...”

“The coalition fights for more than one man,” Garris snapped. “Was Duke Aldric important? Yes. Was he the sole reason we took up arms? No.”

At their lord’s outburst, nearby soldiers turned to look. Garris didn’t care.

“We fight for the people of Sidor who suffer under Edmund’s tyranny. We fight against crushing taxes, unjust executions, and the corruption that rots our kingdom from within. I stood against Serwyn’s oppressive policies before any Whitton joined our cause. But now, with Aldric’s death, they leave me?” He jabbed a finger toward the battlefield, where bodies lay scattered across the bloodied grass. “For months, the barons of Iron Keep stood alone against Edmund. Aldric and William didn’t join until very late. Our loyalties should be to the rebellion, not to House Whitton.”

“I agree, my lord, but many of the eastern lords...”

“Stop hedging your words, Odran. Speak plainly.”

“It is more than Aldric’s death. Word has also gone around that there has been no sign of Prince William. He’s now more than a week overdue to return to Rendalia, according to Baron Pembroke. No one has seen him, and even with the worst weather, he should have been there by now. Many of the barons believe that with both Whittons eliminated, the rebellion cannot succeed.”

“Cannot succeed without a Whitton?” Garris repeated, looking at the knight hard.

“That is only what I heard, my lord.”

“And who began this revolt? Who stood against Serwyn when he executed Baron Thurston for speaking truth to power? Who called the first banners in defiance?”

Odran didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Garris wasn’t asking questions, he was tirading.

“I did. When others bowed their heads and muttered complaints behind closed doors, I acted. When Edmund demanded we bleed our people dry for his coffers, I refused. The barons, who now claim they need Whitton leadership, stood silent then. They didn’t need a Whitton to tell them what was right then. They shouldn’t need one now.”