Rhema III: To Man the Shattered Battlements
The First Day of the Eleventh Moon, 872 AD.
Anaria, Western Teleytaios, Klironomea.
He sat by himself in an old alehouse next to an open window. The building had been abandoned for some time now; indeed, calling the window 'open' implied that there was something that could close it, but any shutters here had long since been torn apart for firewood. It was a sad thing; he'd been here a few times before, back when it was still open, and he'd quite liked it then. Lyk and Alekos had come here as well, once upon a Summer Solstice. That was a good night. Well, if Alekos remembered any of it he'd probably disagree, seeing as he spent half the night hunched over in a hedgerow. Intelligent as Alekos may have been, he didn't know how to hold his drink at all.
Rhema watched with squinting eyes as the sun rose from the east, gentle birdsong filling his ears and drowning out the morning hubbub below. Crowe would either be preparing for the day downstairs or out meeting with a few of his lieutenants at the moment, having all but taken control of his supporters in his 'absence'. He was thankful for that; she was a better leader than him anyway. She'd had to be, given how rare women reaching her rank were.
Of course, she wasn't exactly thrilled at his withdrawal from public life after leaving the palace. Things were definitely getting more complicated as the days went on, and Crowe was running out of excuses to feed his sister on their refusal to return.
He'd actually heard a woman spreading the fanciful rumour of his untimely death to a few other men as they'd walked down the Bastard's Run, but he'd stayed quiet.
Those rumours were pretty funny, no matter what Crowe said. She always ensured such talk was struck down anyway.
It wasn't difficult to work out how such rumours had come around, of course. He'd hardly been seen in the fortnight since he'd last spoken to his sister. She'd grown more paranoid and easily agitated in that time, and when she was paranoid and agitated she was dangerous.
He'd watched as she sat the throne one day despite his presence in the room, oblivious to the collective shock at such a scandalous act. Even her staunchest supporters appeared to recoil at so brazen a disregard for his own royal authority.
By itself that didn't worry him. He hated the damn throne anyway, and the endless petitions it brought with it.
But the fact that she seemed to genuinely not recognise what she'd done wrong?
That was concerning.
She was the ace when it came to playing with courtly games and niceties. The mere weeks he had been in the capital had drained his patience, but she was able to manoeuvre around court factions with all the grace of their departed mother for years, could read the room as well as their father and followed tradition and the unspoken rules of court better than either of their parents did.
For her to genuinely not recognise the faux-pas she had made?
He'd seen it in her then, not that he was suicidal enough to say it to her face.
She was going the same way as him.
Guess Lyk's the only sane one left in our family now. So long as he didn't react poorly to Seventh's dream-magics.
Not that he was worried about that possibility. Well, not much anyway. Lyk had been studying the occult and mystical for almost three years now, and had always held an interest in the subject to some degree. If Rhema was willing to bet on anyone having an immunity to direct magical contact, it was him.
Well, either him or Master Elikoidi. You didn't get far in the business of shadows and spies without learning a few things you shouldn't.
Thoughts of magic and the occult brought up memories of his own attempts at dream-walking to his brother without the presence of Seventh to guide him. Sure, he might not have gotten it perfect, what with them being thrust into combat and unable to speak to each other, but credit where it was due, he'd been able to get the message to his brother day after day and he knew when Seventh was safely in Lyk's court.
That last bit was more Seventh's quick thinking, he surmised, but still.
The fight in any other circumstances might have been considered fun, after all, it had been a long time since anyone had given him a challenge like that on the training field.
In fact, no, they were still fun even given the circumstances they found themselves in.
He'd won all but one of their bouts in that week, but they were challenging victories, and that was what made them fun.
To train with the destitute sons of dispossessed minor lords and the 'best' that small village levies could offer bored him.
Where was the sport in such one-sided bouts?
No, those duels were boring. That week of true fights?
Angels above, that was fun. He needed to spar properly with his brother after the showing he'd been given the last week.
But even so...
He'd been beheaded by his own brother. That had taken some time to sink in; the emotions he'd felt spike through him as his brother stared down at him, face shrouded in darkness, and let his sword fall.
He'd tried to play it off, both in his dream as his brother raised the blade, and in his waking life when the guards at his door questioned his screaming.
He could play it off and ignore it all he liked, but it had messed with his head quite badly.
Of course he didn't hold his brother to blame for it; he was the one that wandered into his brother's mind, and he was the one that continued to head back there night after night without changing methods purely so he might fight him again and again.
Of course one day he was going to lose, even if Seventh' hadn't intervened when they did. Eventually his brother would learn his fighting style and beat him. That was what Lyk did, after all.
He won.
Maybe not straight away. Maybe not without sacrifice and an almost superhuman amount of effort that Rhema was only just starting to appreciate given the last few weeks, but he always won.
Maybe his brother would fail a few times first. That didn't matter, 'cause all that happened then was that he learned.
And when he learned how to defeat someone, be it in a duel, a battle or even something more mundane and academic?
His victory was that much more total.
He shook his head to get back on track, again. Thinking on his brother's talents wouldn't do him much good until his army was actually at Anaria's walls.
The numbers in the capital had swelled to some ten-thousand fighting men and women in total, hunkered down behind stout walls and strong gatehouses. It would, on paper at least, prove a tough encounter for any attacker to have to force their way through.
Conventional wisdom in sieges held that an attacking force would need to outnumber the defender by at least three-to-one, and while there were a great many sieges won with vastly different odds on either side, it was still held as common wisdom for a good reason. His brother had some twelve-thousand men in his army, and Rhema knew that he would be unwilling to simply turn the city to rubble with artillery, and so would need to storm the walls while only slightly outnumbering the defenders within.
Luckily, the actual state of the defenders was far different than it first appeared. The reality of the situation was that some two-thousand men in the ranks of the 'defenders' would be swapping sides, and of the remaining eight-thousand true defenders a quarter of them were the sellswords and mercenaries of the Band of the Wren, bound to his sister only by coin, not loyalty.
As Symon's Starlings had proven to her, loyalty can't be purchased, only rented. As soon as it was no longer profitable to remain loyal to her, Symon had taken his men and swapped sides.
Smart man. Wonder what he was offered to make that move. He snorted in amusement at his own thoughts. To be honest he probably didn't need to be offered anything at all. A week with Harren would be enough to turn the loyalties of any man to ash.
He'd brought every one of his loyalists into the northern district with him. He wasn't taking any chances here, and would accept no failure in his plan, not now, not when the final act was so close. If his sister managed to realise what was going on in the midst of battle, and if she could spare the resources to assault his own positions, and if she wrest control of the district from him before his brother made it through the gates, then she could still win here.
He was not going to let that happen. Not after all she'd done.
Four-hundred armsmen and two-hundred knights made up the professional core of his supporters, bolstered to a total of two thousand by a motley assortment of levies from various religious minorities. Why the Drake-Church had remained so loyal to him was a mystery, especially given what his sister had done to Hydran's Cult 'in his name', but what was perhaps even more baffling was the fact that the Ichorian Cult, bearing the standards and banners of their long-dead king whom they believed to be the reincarnation of the First Saint, had sworn themselves to him as well. Perhaps they knew he was a member of the Silent Cult, and had seen in him a kindred spirit since he followed one of the minor denominations of the faith.
Perhaps they simply wanted royal protection, where his sister couldn't reach them.
However they came to their decision, and for whatever reasons they had reached it, they were here and stood beside him now. That was the important thing.
So, two thousand were loyal to him, and two thousand were loyal to coin.
This meant that of all the soldiers in the capital only six-thousand bore any love for his sister. The real trouble was that of the two-thousand Armsmen who hadn't sided with his brother only four-hundred were loyal to him, and the rest would doubtlessly fight to the bitter end for his sister.
In fact the remaining six-hundred from Lieutenant Daniil's thousand, of which Rhema's own four-hundred supporters amongst the armsmen could be found, were stationed in the northern district with the young prince's own supporters. Rhema knew that as soon as his brother's army was in sight he'd need to make sure Daniil and the Roses amongst his unit were being trampled into the cobbles of the streets, lest they hold their defensive positions in the dilapidated, broken district and bleed them out here.
Apart from that all his sister had left were some three-hundred knights, seeing as the other thousand were away dealing with the pockets of resistance in the south-east, another thousand armsmen, and somewhere approaching five-thousand levies.
Split down like that the chances of her victory seemed slight at best, but Rhema knew better than to underestimate her.
She'd find a way to do something to tip the scales in her favour again, even if it took a mountain of gold or a torrent of blood.
It was what she did best, after all.
Angels, thinking of so many numbers bored him to no end. He'd never much paid attention to his lessons in Castelos, preferring the training grounds and the sparring it promised. The physical activity soothed his mind most days, as a balm on his spirit. If it were possible, he'd have joined the armsmen when he came of age, but father had forbidden it.
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He was a prince, not some common gutter-rat or dispossessed noble. His place in life was to be found in aristocratic courts and palatial splendour, not muddy fields and dour barracks.
He moved slightly, propping his head up with one of his arms as the other rolled a seaberry along what was left of the windowsill. They were about the only thing he'd been able to stomach the last few days, especially since even the thought of eating meat repulsed him. He wasn't quite sure what had triggered this, but he had a few guesses. Most likely it was seeing all those people butchered in the streets when he'd left the palace last week.
He shook his head to get his thoughts back on track. That was the long reason for his leaving.
The short was that Roma had become so volatile after his outburst at her that he couldn't even pretend to be working with her anymore, so he simply left. His supporters, what few remained anyway, had congregated in the northern district of the city, and as a result he now ruled from an abandoned alehouse in the most deprived area of the capital.
Some king he'd turned out to be.
He was broken from his musings by a pair of fieldfares, drawn to him by the small pile of seaberries on the windowsill. He held one in his hand, willing himself to stop shaking.
If the birds were bothered by his trembling hands then they didn't show it, one of them happily jumping on top and plucking the berry away from him as he stroked it's head and neck with his thumb.
He watched as the other moved to peck at the pile next to him, the other hopping off his hand and joining their friend.
He liked birds. They didn't ask him awkward questions, or expect him to do anything.
Well, except feed them berries.
He knew he had a few things to do today, but he was content in the knowledge that Crowe could handle them without him.
Maybe he could just spend a little while enjoying some birdsong.
That sounded nice.
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Hours passed, and the sun began to fall from view, passing over the alehouse. The direction of the wind changed, blowing smoke from the men's cook fires beneath him.
A few different groups of soldiers were encamped, armsmen and levies both, huddling together in the frigid autumn air around a spit with what looked like the bloodied remnants of a fully grown cow's leg on it. How the score of men were intending to feed themselves with just that he didn't know. There was hardly enough meat on it for a quarter of them.
He'd used to love hunting, even for little birds like those he'd fed that morning, but nowadays he couldn't stomach the sight of blood or meat, for all he could see when he looked to the cuts and steaks were the bodies of those who had died for a cause he didn't believe in, and all he could feel as he chewed were the flies about their corpses buzzing in his mouth and the worms wriggling in his empty stomach.
The wind and smoke carried the smell to his nose, and he turned away and retched.
Angels, he couldn't stomach it anymore. Literally.
The joke came across as weak, even in his own mind, but he ignored that fact.
The smell lingered even as he walked away, and he could taste the blood and meat on his tongue
He could still smell the meat on the spit, even if he couldn't see it anymore, could feel the flies grow more frantic and angry as he walked away.
The worms wriggled and writhed amongst the rot in his empty stomach as he gagged.
They might not have been real, but they certainly felt real.
He swallowed. Hard.
Crowe would likely be back soon, if she wasn't waiting downstairs already. He could hold on until then. With any luck the cold air would ground him until he was away from the smell of the burning flesh.
Meat. It's not flesh, it's meat. Flesh makes it sound like a person. I don't need these thoughts to get any worse than they already are.
His feet carried him to the ground floor of the alehouse without much thought. Crowe would likely be back by now, and with any luck she'd be able to cheer him up a bit. Swallowing once more and taking a ignore his rising nausea, he walked down the stairs.
He coughed politely when he saw Crowe with her back turned to him. She was stooped over a pot on the hearth, clearly in the midst of cooking. He grimaced at the thought of eating.
She turned to face him as the door was closed, smiling at him.
"Your Grace-"
"Your Highness, you mean."
She put a hand on her hip.
"Not unless I'm sure no one can hear me, your Grace. I need you to eat something tonight, even if it's only a small meal. You're... well, you're starting to go gaunt."
"I'm sorry Crowe, but I can't eat that sort of thing anymore..."
"My Prince..."
She stopped herself, clearly thinking her words over. Crowe's voice was uncharacteristically soft when she spoke. Well, uncharacteristic if she was speaking with anyone else. Over the last month she'd become much more caring towards him, more maternal, than she previously had.
Well, that's not entirely fair. She's always cared for me, she's just showing it more now.
"Please Rhema. I know the last few weeks have been stressful, but I need you to eat something."
"I ate a handful of seaberries earlier."
"Rhema..."
"Okay, some birds did. I had a few though."
He saw the look she gave him, and turned away. He sighed deeply and rested his head in his hands, slightly muffling his words.
"I can't eat meat. I don't like the feeling anymore."
Crowe looked at him, before turning back to the cook-pot on the fire.
"You don't need to eat what you don't want to, your Grace-"
She looked around the room, satisfied that no-one was eavesdropping, then continued.
"Sorry, your Highness. Here, try eating this instead. No meat has so much as touched it, nor has it been flavoured with its stock."
He took a cautious spoonful of the mixture, gingerly placing it in his mouth and swallowing before his eyes went wide.
Angels, it tasted amazing. Or he was just hungry for something he could stomach.
He hadn't realised how hungry he was until he'd eaten something that didn't make him want to throw up.
He ravenously devoured the contents of the bowl, clearing it in less than two minutes of the vegetable mixture. There were carrots, parsnips, turnips, peas and onion, with what must have been thyme and rosemary for seasoning. As soon as the solid food was gone he tipped the remaining vegetable broth into his mouth, gulping it down greedily.
Manners be damned, this is too good.
"I received an 'order' from Roma today, actually. She's summoned me to attend her, apparently."
He wiped his mouth and looked at her, concerned.
"You aren't going to-"
Crowe cut him off by hocking and spitting on the ground to her side.
"There's the only bit of me I intend to give her, and if she wants it that badly she can damn well come here and scrape it off the floor herself."
Rhema smiled at her crassness.
"Besides," she continued, "you need only command me to attend you instead and legally her order means less than nothing. You are still technically the reigning monarch, even if you're only sitting the throne as a farce."
He nodded, grinning.
"Okay then, Marshal-at-Arms Crowe, I command you to attend me and provide wise and just council until you are released from this service. So, you know, basically just keep doing what you were already doing."
Crowe smiled as his stomach rumbled again, and he moved to tip the last few mouthfuls of the watery broth down his throat. He took in a deep breath as he finished the broth, and even as he did so the bowl was removed from his hands and a small plate was thrust into its place. Looking down at it he could see shoots of sparrow-grass and slices of leek, both grilled.
Rhema looked up at the Marshal, who smiled knowingly back at him.
"I prepared for your diet to change as such. I wasn't certain if it was actually just the meat you didn't like, indeed this was more of a guess than anything, but I thought it couldn't hurt to try having you eat something like this. At the very least I'm relieved to watch you eat something other than small handfuls of seaberries for a while. I didn't like watching you starve yourself like that."
Rhema nodded at her and smiled gratefully. He knew how lucky he was to have someone like Crowe looking out for him, even if he didn't always show it.
"Thank you. I now understand why Lyk kept telling me vegetables weren't just peasant food."
She shook her head.
"It wasn't difficult, no need to thank me. It's surprising how many soldiers will give up vegetables for meats; I found plenty willing to trade while I was out. And I agree with your brother on that matter. I'll never understand why the nobility treat all-meat diets as a status symbol, especially since they have to ignore the polaerans who will prove time and time again that it isn't good for the body."
He snorted a little. If the nobles wanted to keep themselves from common foods they were welcome too. As for himself? He was quite happy to eat this if it meant he wasn't feeling constantly sick.
"Thanks anyway. For looking after me."
His voice came out somewhat weak from fatigue, but that didn't really matter. He would fix that soon enough; having now eaten some real food he found himself growing drowsy, his lack of sleep catching up with him as his body was no longer worried about its more immediate concern of finding sustenance.
He ate as much of the leek and sparrow-grass as he could, his appetite still too small to finish the whole thing, but Crowe didn't seem to mind. She spoke to him of the more minute details of their plans, of who was stationed where, of which loyal soldiers truly knew of the plan and who was being left in the dark, expected to act purely on his order with no prior knowledge of their switching sides.
At least, he thought she did. His eyelids were constantly fluttering open and shut, and he grew more and more aware that his consciousness was slipping gently away from him.
This time he didn't mind so much. He wasn't in the castle by himself anymore, he wasn't in his cold room, and he didn't have an empty stomach. Even if he was sat rather than led down, he was quite comfortable. He could stay awake a little longer, after all, he needed to catch up on the minutia of the day he had missed. Crowe would fill him in, then he'd find somewhere to sleep for a bit.
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His eyes fluttered open once more. He hadn't even realised he'd closed them. The fire was still burning in the hearth to his right, and Crowe was looking at him in an almost motherly fashion. He could hear a few men outside singing a rendition of 'The Two Corvids', their voices carried softly on the autumn winds.
"Go on your Highness. Go back to sleep. I'll keep watch until dawn, just focus on getting some rest."
"I can get back to work, we've got plans to make-"
"Rhema," her voice was softer than he'd ever heard it, but it somehow carried more weight than her usual sternness did. She moved next to him and began to stroke his hair before continuing.
"You're allowed to let yourself rest. We'll carry on in the morning, I promise, but I'd rather you got some rest. Go back to sleep."
"Weren't you the one telling me I needed to spend more time doing my work back at Castelos?"
Crowe gave him an exaggerated sigh, smiling slightly.
"Whilst you could stand to do a bit more work when it comes to the day-to-day, I would prefer it if you didn't make it quite so large a part of your life as your brother did."
"Diligence is a virtue." He snarked back.
She ran her hand through his hair again, and he curled up a little more.
"You've been through a lot recently. You can take a rest. Besides, you'll be with your brother soon enough. There's little left to stop him now. Roma's played all her cards, there's little more she can do."
He scoffed weakly.
"Out of cards? She's never been out of cards in her life. No, she seems like she's out, but that just means she's drawing a few more from the deck."
Crowe didn't try and argue.
"Maybe. She's been seen meeting with some strange priests recently, mayhaps that's something to do with it?"
She cut herself off.
"Ah, listen to me carry on when all you need to do is sleep. Go on, we'll be able to talk about it in the morning. Get some more rest, Rhema. You'll need it in the days to come."
He didn't really want to leave her to stay awake all night, after all, she'd be tired come the morning, but between the warmth of the hearth and the feeling of her hand playing with his hair, all that came of his attempted protests was a tired whine. He found that he couldn't even move his mouth to utter the words, and he didn't particularly mind. Instead his eyes gently shut once more, and he curled up in the armchair he was sat in.
In a matter of seconds, he was back in the deepest sleep he'd had in weeks.