Matt opened his eyes and found himself staring at the ceiling of his bedroom.
Not his real one back in Washington State, of course. It was his royal bedchambers; there was a pretty clear difference between the vaulted stone and a slightly crumbling hotel room turned apartment. He chuckled a bit at the mental comparison, at least until sudden stabbing pains from his chest and arm brought that to a drastic halt.
Almost immediately, Gorfeld and Melren were there, peering at him in obvious concern. He managed a grin. “Not done with me yet.”
A flicker of relief washed over Melren’s expression. Gorfeld only smiled. “It is good to hear your voice, my liege.”
Matt raised an eyebrow; Gorfeld had been loyal before, but he wouldn’t have described him as devoted or anything. After all, the Low Imp was the only one who knew where Matt had come from, and the only one who would likely have a less-than-awed perspective on his new king. Yet the steward seemed pleased to see him alive, for more reasons than just avoiding chaos in the Kingdom. “It’s good to still speak.”
Then the details of the fight came back to him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “So Suluth didn’t wait after all.” He opened them. “Did either of my men survive?”
The Imps exchanged a look before Melren answered. “One of them was killed. The other still fights for his life.”
“See that he gets the best of care.” Matt rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “If the one who died had family, let them know they will continue to receive his wages until the end of my reign. That’s my policy for all of my lifeguards, going forward. We’ll call it the Monarch’s Thanks; we can come up with an appropriate medal or other honor later.”
There was a flicker of something like astonishment on both Imps’ faces, but they simply nodded. He shifted slightly, wondering with resentment why they were so surprised. It only made sense to let the people guarding him know that he would take care of their families if the worst happened. The last thing he needed was a disgruntled set of bodyguards. “What has been happening? How long was I out?”
Gorfeld answered this time, his voice calm. “You have been asleep for two days, my liege. Both due to the healing trance and the effects of the sleeproot.” He paused, looking at the door to his bedchamber. “The healers have been hard at work to save you. Apparently, it was a close thing.”
Matt remembered the numbness in his body, felt the impact against his chest again. How much poison had he taken, and how bad had that last arrow hit been? “They will have my thanks as well. Was anyone else hurt?”
Melren shook his head. “No, my liege. There were three more assassins, but they were waiting further down the hallway, and ran as soon as they heard me leading the guards in their direction. I regret to say that they escaped, but no one else was hurt.” The former nobleman paused. “It was a fortunate thing that you drew them out the way you did. When you did not fall for their ruse, they had to split their forces, leaving some of them behind to guard their escape route. Otherwise, I might not have caught up to you, and there would have been too many to fight off.”
Matt frowned a little. There was something about that idea, splitting the enemy forces… He shook his head, trying to set the idea aside for later. “And the city? Has anyone else tried to make a move against us?”
The Imps both grinned at the question, though Melren’s expression contained a fair amount more chagrin than Gorfeld’s. His steward was practically gloating as he spoke. “Shortly after news of your condition reached the Grand Council, Lady Relden proposed a decree to establish a successor for you, in case you perished. It happens sometimes, that a ruler dies alongside their assassin. The process afterwards is… unpleasant unless someone gains widespread support. She also proposed placing the city under martial order and restricting the movements of the freeholders until the remaining assassins could be found.”
“While the Council debated the measure, news of it reached the rest of the city. The citizens of Redspire did not respond well.”
Melren snorted. “You mean they practically started a riot, steward. The Guard didn’t even stop them; half the soldiers were ready to help!”
Matt felt his eyes widen in surprise. It was what he expected, what he hoped, but so soon… “What happened, then? I assume they didn’t burn half the city down?”
“They were ready to, my liege.” Melren was still shaking his head, utterly bemused by the situation. “As they were gathering, though, one of the local leaders stood up and made them listen to reason. He convinced them to appoint a Voice, using the riot as a kind of Assembly. Ludicrous!”
“But legal.” Gorfeld’s voice was firm, even a little resentful of the other Imp’s tone. Apparently, he had not found the decision quite so unreasonable. “Girtun was appointed Voice for Redspire, and he went to the Council and informed them he was going to stand against any measure that he felt would usurp the authority of the king, at least until you recovered.”
It was even better than he’d hoped. In fact, he was starting to wonder if he hadn’t done the best possible thing by getting himself shot. “The Council listened? It didn’t try to ignore him?”
“There was a proposal to…dispose of Voice Girtun.” Melren chuckled to himself. “Lord Torth then reminded the Council that doing so would be treason—and Girtun reminded them he was just the representative of a very angry, very attentive crowd of freeholders outside. In the end, the motion failed.”
Gorfeld smiled, the widest and most happy expression that Matt had ever seen on him. “Lord Torth then proposed that we increase the number of your lifeguard to twenty-four, and that we require at least four of them be with you at all times.” He glanced around the room, and Matt levered himself up enough to see four very large, very grim-looking Orcs standing in the corners of his bedchamber. “I believe they might let you relieve yourself privately, sire, but not much more than that. Lord Torth was rather insistent on securing your safety, and in bringing even more men in for the muster.”
“How kind of him.” Matt murmured the words as he thought through the implications. Torth was obviously too clever to move against him openly. To have him supporting the reforms was helpful, but it also meant that the High Imp was clever enough to ingratiate himself with the freeholders, even when Matt himself was out of the picture. It might be a danger he’d have to deal with eventually, but for now, the High Imp nobleman could wait behind the ones that were actively trying to stab him to death.
He shifted on the bed, feeling the pain of his wounds and the soreness in his limbs. “Is there anything else I should know? Any news from the warfronts?”
Gorfeld shook his head. “No, my liege. For now, things seem more or less as you left them. More men are flocking to the muster, especially after the news of the assassination attempt. The Council has declared Lady Suluth guilty of treason now, with no objections; apparently one of the assassins was identified as a member of her personal retinue.”
Melren broke in, then, glancing resentfully at the steward. “The Wizard Paralus has been sending an awful lot of messages home. He was not involved in the attempt; apparently, he had no idea that the assassins had used him as an excuse for the attack and seemed ready to flee the city. He still seems on edge.”
“Understandable. I hope he is not provoked into doing anything rash.” Matt shifted again, thinking it over. Would the Western Coalition think that his incapacitation was an opening to attack? Or had Paralus just been wary of being grabbed and killed by an angry mob? He was half tempted to order the messages to be intercepted, but he was fairly sure that would only worsen the situation. “If there isn’t anything else, I think I probably need to rest. Oh, except I would also like to speak with this Voice, Girtun. He seems like a wise man and deserves my thanks.”
There was a commotion in the study outside his bedchamber, and Gorfeld cocked his head to the side. The Low Imp grinned. “That should be taken care of shortly, my liege. The lifeguards are still getting used to the idea of the Voices being above their ability to block, but—”
Before Gorfeld could finish, the doors to Matt’s bedchamber were thrown open, and a hulking, soot-smeared Orc strode in. Matt blinked in surprised as he studied the newcomer. Even across the room, he could smell forgework rolling off of the man; the Orc only lacked the leather apron of a blacksmith and a hammer in his hand to complete the picture. As it was, there was a long knife at his belt, but he seemed unaware of it as he looked at the Imps, his gruff features set into a scowl.
“Is he—he is awake?” The Orc took a step forward, his scowl falling away into a look of relief so profound that it seemed unnatural on his blunt face. He dropped to one knee. “My liege, I am Girtun.”
Matt glanced at the Imps, measuring their reaction to the Voice. Gorfeld had already inclined his head in obvious respect, but Melren was studying the man with clear suspicions. Natural responses from both of them, but it was just as clear that they viewed him as a serious man, not some joke that they had to endure. Good. “Girtun. You were the one the Assembly chose as their Voice here in Redspire?”
“I was honored to be the first, my liege. They chose a second shortly afterwards.” Girtun waited for Matt to gesture before he rose from his knee. He took a step closer—ignoring the obvious tension from the lifeguards in the room—and examined Matt more closely. He let out a short breath of further relief. “You color looks much improved, my liege, and I am glad to see it. Arrow wounds can be…difficult to recover, even when the bastards aren’t using poison.”
The clear lack of a filter reminded Matt a little of Captain Snolt, and he nearly chuckled before he remembered the pain involved. Instead, he settled for a calm smile. “So I am learning, Voice Girtun. Next time, I think I will try to be quicker.”
Girtun gave a short bark of laughter. “Just so, sire, just so.” He glanced at the lifeguards, who were still watching him with clear dislike. “I am also glad to see you so well guarded. We…we feared the worst, my liege. Half the city was in arms.”
The sober words brought home just how bad things could have been, and Matt felt a sudden burst of gratitude. “I understand it was your influence that kept things stable, Voice Girtun. For this, I thank you. Your work kept our city and our Kingdom from danger.”
The Voice shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Only by your wise example, my liege. Without your laws, we would not have had any chance to stop it.” Girtun lifted his head and met Matt’s eyes dead on. “We’re with you, King Matthew. I just wanted to make sure you knew that, and that you were well.”
The unstated promise to watch his back against the Council was heavy in the air, and Matt felt a second burst of gratitude. “Again, you have my thanks, Voice Girtun. It warms my heart to know that the people of Redspire have not yet given up on our Kingdom.”
“Never, my liege, not while you reign.” Girtun glanced at Melren, an unsubtle message in that look, and then nodded. “With your permission, my liege, I will withdraw. Voice Wokneth is watching the Council, but I’d like to let the people know that you’re awake again.”
Matt gestured again, and Girtun gave him another respectful nod. Then the Voice left the bedchamber, his stride determined and strong. He watched him go for another moment, and then allowed himself a short, painful chuckle. Melren looked at him in concern. “My liege?”
“It is nothing.” Matt gave him a calming wave. “I just… wonder if I can sometimes be a bit too clever for my own good.”
“A risk we should embrace, my liege.” Gorfeld’s murmur provoked another half-hearted glare from Melren, but Matt ignored them. His idea from before, about luring the enemy out, had floated back to the top of his thoughts. The more he went over it, the better it seemed. If only he could…
He drifted off to sleep a moment later, plans and strategies still whirling in his head.
The next three days passed in something of a haze. He spent the entirety of it in bed, still healing from the arrow wounds. He enjoyed the near constant visits of royal physicians, many of whom were experienced Water mages, but apparently the wounds were serious enough that he needed that level of care just to survive. His wounded lifeguard was not so lucky; by the second day, the poor man had joined his partner in death.
Fortunately, his time in bed was not entirely unproductive. He received daily, almost hourly reports on the activities of the Council from a continuous stream of pages that went in and out of his chambers. Each one was carefully checked by his remaining lifeguards to make sure that Suluth hadn’t planned out a backup attempt on his life—not that it would surprise him if one of the other nobles tried to finish the job while he was weak.
It seemed as if the Council was reluctant to move against him, though. None of them proposed anything radical or unexpected since he woke up, and Matt was having a hard time figuring out if it was because they realized he wasn’t planning on conveniently dying, or because their sessions had a minimum of at least one Voice watching over them. Girtun was certainly keeping his word so far.
In addition to monitoring the nobles’ schemes, he continued to hear from the frontiers of the Kingdom. That feeling of a tightening noose had not changed; if anything, it was getting worse as more and more enemies seemed to appear. There was still no news of Suluth, however, and even less information about the Alliance of Light. It was probably too much to hope that Suluth had died in some random skirmish, but a man could dream. The only immediate good news was a report that Lady Einreth had reached Shadeglen unharmed, though he had no doubt that she would be on the receiving end of an assassination attempt of her own, sometime soon.
In between reports and sessions of healing, Matt pored over the maps of the eastern mountain range, running through his expected plans again and again in his head. It should work, but he knew he would face significant resistance to his ideas—both from the nobles and his commanders. At the very least, he was sure Lord Torth was going to say something, but that didn’t change what they needed to do.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
At the same time, he continued building his first Source. Being confined to bed allowed him far more time to work on those mantras, though not being able to walk the streets or supervise the continuing construction was frustrating. The pain of his injuries was also a distraction, but he still managed to buckle down and focus for long enough to complete the first portion of the thing.
It was an odd feeling, when it happened. The moment his Earth Element completed, it was like something inside him had shifted and fallen into place, completing a puzzle that he hadn’t known existed. He’d considered that internal feeling of power and solidity for a moment, and then sighed before moving on to the next step. The mantras for an Autumn foundation were no less complex, but they felt natural to him; Melren had been firm about the fact that Earth and Autumn had a tendency to go well together, and it seemed the Imp had not been wrong. They also opened several options for interesting chants, though he hadn’t completely decided which Aspect he was going to settle on.
By the time he was ready to present his plan, he was nearly ready to leave his bed and walk on his own for the first time. He grimaced at the protests from the healers, gave Gorfeld a grim shake of his head when the steward questioned him, and sent a message for Captain Snolt and many of the other Guard captains to come to his study. The situation in the east was not going to wait for him to recover completely. Ready or not, he needed to put things in motion now. He just hoped that it was not too late.
The captains filed into the room with wary looks between them. It was clear not all of them were comfortable with the summons, though Snolt and Karve seemed far more at ease than the rest. Matt noted the officers selected for the mustered freemen were the most out of sorts. They seemed to feel a mixture of uncertainty and defiance, alternating between staring at him in awe and squaring their shoulders whenever one of the regular Guard captains glanced in their direction. It showed a certain lack of confidence that worried Matt, but he had no choice. If he wanted the numbers to finish his plan, then he’d need to put up with some relative lack of experience.
One officer that seemed almost completely at ease was Captain Vumorth, Melren’s replacement for the banner of High Guard that had remained in the city. The Imp was so effortlessly casual in her attitude that Matt almost wondered if she was simply not paying attention. It was only when he caught her eye that she gave him a steady smile before engaging one of the Irregular captains in conversation. He decided it was something of an act meant to bolster the others’ morale.
He hoped it was working, because Matt knew he wasn’t exactly presenting an image of success. Forced to walk with a cane, and still pale and trembling from his wounds, it had been an agonizing walk from the bedchamber to his writing desk. The act of getting dressed had been a special kind of torture, one that had nearly made him nauseous enough to ruin everything with a sudden coating of vomit. It had taken a desperate moment of unsteady breathing to hold it off and continue.
All the same, he nodded to the gathered officers and gestured for them to sit. He certainly wouldn’t be standing, that was for sure. “Thank you all for coming. We have much to discuss.”
The captains nodded and sorted themselves into the chairs that the servants had arranged in front of the writing desk. It felt a little cramped, but at the very least each of the chairs had been placed so that the captains all had a clear view of the desktop. More specifically, of the map of the eastern range that he had set up. A few of them muttered to each other in speculation, but he ignored that and reached out to tap on the symbol of Greymouth.
“We have a problem that we need to resolve. Before the beginning of winter, the Noble Races are going to assault Greymouth. They’ll put it to siege, and likely before the end of spring, they will take it.”
There was a whisper of dismay through some of the captains, though Captain Snolt was the only one who spoke up. “Captain Morteth is a fighter, my liege. He won’t go down without a struggle.”
“He’ll be facing an army three times his own. I have no doubt that he would resist, and that he would buy as much time as he could, but he is not a miracle worker.” Matt paused, inviting protest, but there were none. Vumorth did open her mouth as if to speak, but a glance from Matt kept her quiet. “What I want to know from you, since you all know him better than I do, is how well Captain Morteth can maneuver in the field. How does he act when given a more mobile command?”
There was a moment of silence, and then Captain Worak spoke up. “I have fought beside Captain Morteth many times. He thinks fast and can adapt to new circumstances quickly. He is no coward.”
Vumorth spoke up next. “He and I trained together often. We spoke of tactics and strategy many times. I admit he is better than I am at seeing crucial moments to strike and withdraw, though I believe I still had the edge on magecraft.”
“Will he obey orders he does not entirely understand?” Matt leaned forward slightly, ignoring a painful twinge in his chest. He also resisted the urge to cough, gulping a bit of air instead. “My strategy for dealing with this enemy is…unconventional. I worry that he will believe I do not know what I am doing.”
Captain Snolt burst out laughing for a moment. “Before the raids, I might have doubted you, my liege, and so he might have to. After it, though? I think he’ll give you a bit more trust than before. He’ll follow orders.”
With a grunt, Captain Cors shook his head. “He’ll follow them, as long as he doesn’t think he’s being hung out to dry. You’re not sending him on a border raid, are you?”
The question bordered on insolence, and Matt nearly responded with a question of his own. Before he could, however, Karve broke in. “If the King commands it, it will be done. He will not spend our lives wastefully, but no true warrior tries to save his own life at the cost of the Kingdom.”
Snolt gave Cors a contemptuous look. “Cowardice is a shameful thing to admit to, captain. The King knows when to strike boldly.”
Cors flushed with anger and embarrassment, but Matt spoke before the argument could develop further. “I do, but I also know when not to.” He reached out and tapped the wooden piece that represented the forces stationed at Greymouth. “Ordering Morteth to advance would not stop the enemy this time. He wouldn’t be as mobile as the Royal First was, and he would have more problems supplying his forces—especially since we burned half the villages nearby.”
A satisfied grumble rolled through the captains, and he continued in an even voice. “At the same time, I don’t see any reason to ask Morteth to hold Greymouth and die. He and his men deserve the chance to win a victory, not just sacrifice themselves to help us lose more slowly.”
There was confusion on most of the faces looking at him now. Confusion and worry. Captain Urannen, a Gnomish Irregular captain, spoke up cautiously. “If he isn’t going to attack, and he isn’t going to stay still, then what…”
He trailed off, and Matt nodded. With a hand he hoped didn’t tremble, he reached out and moved the piece representing the garrison, drawing it back to the west. “In the next day, I am going to send orders for Captain Morteth to evacuate most of the garrison from Greymouth. He will abandon it and move his forces west, to High Esson.”
The shocked silence that followed was just as confused and worried as he had expected. Cors seemed particularly shocked. “He’s—he’s going to abandon Greymouth? But the enemy…”
“The enemy will have Greymouth one way or another, captain. I’m just making sure they take it on our terms, not theirs.” Matt tapped the location of the fortress. “Before his forces leave, I will order them to take most of the supplies from the fortress larders. The portion he leaves behind, he will be ordered to make foul.”
Vumorth frowned. She seemed less confused and worried than the others. “Make foul, sire?”
“Contaminate.” Matt searched for the words he needed. “He’ll mix in rat corpses and dung with the food. Drop dead auroch pieces down the wells. Piss in the beer. That sort of thing.”
A rough chuckle ran through the group, though fear and confusion were still there. Woraz was still frowning. “I don’t think that the enemy will give the fortress back over a little food poisoning, sire. They will still hold it, and gain control of the pass.”
“Yeah, they will.” Matt grinned. “Which means when the enemy marches west, they’ll have to leave behind some of their troops as a garrison, won’t they?”
“Well, yes, of course they will—” Cors paused, realization dawning. “So their forces will be split up. Morteth might have a better chance to take them.”
Vumorth grinned. “I’m sure he would trade some stone walls for that. How many troops would they leave behind, though? Four banners? Five?”
“More than that, I’d expect.” Matt tapped the piece representing Morteth’s forces. “Hethwellow has to anticipate an attack there, and he wouldn’t want us to be able to run an army in behind him to retake it and cut his supply lines. He’ll leave a strong force there while he tries to chase down our forces.”
“So eight banners. Maybe as much as ten.” Woraz was still grimacing at the map. “Are we sure that he will push forward? It would make more sense if he stayed in the mountains, guarding Greymouth until spring comes.”
“It would…if he didn’t hate us quite so much.” Matt smiled. “Hethwellow has to be hurting after being driven away from Greymouth before. He was also probably communicating with both Tek and Itrelia; he might expect to find help and additional supplies within our territory. Given the chance, he’d absolutely want to charge after Morteth, especially since he’ll still have an advantage in numbers.”
Vumorth nodded. “Even leaving ten banners behind, he’ll nearly have two men for every one of Morteth’s.”
Matt glanced over at her, seeing a blank, professional expression. It was clear she wasn’t challenging him—yet. She’d wait to see if he was a fool, perhaps, but at least she wasn’t actively being a problem. “You’re right. Which is why when Hethwellow attempts to bring Morteth to battle, I am going to order him to withdraw.”
“Withdraw?” Snolt’s voice was a mixture of outrage and offense. “We’re going to let those cursed Knights run rampant within our borders?”
“Morteth will avoid battle until it suits us.” Matt tapped the piece again. “We’ll send word to evacuate the nearby villages and their food stores to Redspire. Since we know the enemy is coming, we can do that now, before they even cross the mountains. The Knights may still burn the buildings, but the people and their food will be safe.”
“He may do worse than putting a few barns to the torch, my liege.” Karve’s voice was still calm, but he seemed less than enthusiastic about the plan. “There is nothing good about allowing an enemy to wander around our lands unrestrained.”
“I disagree, captain.” He kept his voice just as calm. Their objections were nothing he hadn’t expected, but he knew the course they had to follow.” “With his armies in our territory, his supply situation will only get worse as time goes on. Especially once the snow starts to fall in the mountains.”
He moved the token representing the invaders over near the piece that showed Morteth’s position. “Besides, his options for anything meaningful are limited at best. If Hethwellow continues to chase Morteth, our commander will have better access to supplies and a better knowledge of the terrain. With those advantages and a smaller force, it should be easy for Morteth to evade him for quite some time.”
Vumorth reached over hesitantly to tap the map in a different place. “And if he moves north to cross the River Crimson? We know he has made some kind of treaty with the traitors among the Frost Elves.”
Matt opened his mouth to answer, but Snolt beat him to it. The Goblin laughed, a harsh barking sound. “Almost hope the bastard would! Morteth’ll catch him while he’s crossing, the way we did to those cold prancers. He could wait until about half of the army’s across and catch the back half.”
He grinned at Matt, who nodded with a smile. “My thoughts exactly, Captain Snolt. The Knights might be able to bring more banners to Itrelia, but they would lose nearly half their army, and the Frost Elves aren’t likely to be able to supply them easily. Morteth would then be able to retrace his steps and put Greymouth to siege, while we shifted our focus to containing what was left in the north.”
Cors spoke up again, this time pointing in a different direction. “And if he marches here instead? It wouldn’t take him long to reach Redspire along the roads.”
“If he wants to commit to a siege here, so much the better.” Matt shrugged. “We have enough banners here to hold the walls for a while—and Morteth could set up camp just outside the siege lines, ready to cut him off from resupply. If Hethwellow tried to storm us, Morteth could help crush him against the walls. A siege force without supply trains isn’t going to work very well either.”
Another silence fell as the captains thought the plan over. Matt waited, turning his own eyes back to the map. He’d been over and over it, again and again, as he tried to see the problems it might show. There was one risk, but if none of the captains saw it…
“Sire.” He looked up and saw Vumorth watching him intently. “What if, instead of Redspire, Hethwellow marches on Ashpeak?”
The silence that followed the question was sudden and deep. Ashpeak was the center of the High Imp’s territory. It was a city far smaller than Redspire, roughly half the size, but it was the seat of nearly half the noble houses in the High Peaks. Allowing it to be put to the sword would devastate the entire region, leaving Hethwellow with a major victory and weakening the Kingdom in turn.
Matt nodded slowly to Vumorth. “A good question, Captain Vumorth.” He rearranged the pieces on the map, showing part of the invaders staying at Greymouth, while the others were just emerging from the mountains. Morteth he set up about a day from the entrance to the pass, at the village of High Esson. “I anticipate that Hethwellow will not immediately march on Ashpeak. He’ll be focused on a grander victory, and he wouldn’t want to settle on a smaller prize.”
As he continued, he maneuvered the pieces, showing Hethwellow’s forces pursuing Morteth, and Morteth shifting to stay out of reach. “I’ll send orders for Morteth to fall back to the south at first, giving him a chance to come in behind Hethwellow if the Knights march to the river, or to Redspire. It will also allow him to fall back towards Ashpeak and defend it if needed.”
“Respectfully, his forces will still not be enough for a pitched battle alone, sire.”
Matt met Vumorth’s eyes. “Which is why he won’t be alone, Captain.” He reached out and touched the token that represented the garrison at Redspire. “If Hethwellow turns south and makes for Ashpeak—or, for that matter, if he shows signs of trying to retreat back towards Greymouth once conditions grow bad for him—I will lead the majority of the garrison here out to aid Morteth.”
He moved that token, sliding it across the map. “We’ll march quickly, since we’ll have the advantage of terrain and supplies. By the time Hethwellow realizes we’re there, we should be in behind him. At that point, we’ll have nearly the same number of forces that Hethwelllow has, and the enemy will be surrounded.”
Matt came to a stop, with the piece representing his forces north of the invaders, while Morteth’s forces were just to the south. “With their supply lines cut and their forces surrounded, we’ll have all the advantage we need. They’ll be trapped, and we’ll be able to force their surrender or destroy them completely.” He moved both Morteth’s piece and his own, crushing the token of the invaders between them. Hethwellow’s piece fell over, rolling a little out of the way. “From there, we can retake Greymouth or attack through one of the other passes to force their withdrawal.”
When he looked up, he saw the captains all staring at him in silence. Vumorth still had that measuring, weighing look, but he didn’t see anger or hostility in her. Just calculation. “Are there any other objections or questions?”
Silence met the question, and Matt nodded after a moment. “Good. I will draft the orders to Captain Morteth and send them before the end of the day, along with other messengers to evacuate the nearby villages. I need you to go back to your banners and prepare them for the coming fight. With luck, they might not be needed, but if they are, we need to be ready for a hard fight. The freedom and safety of our Kingdom depends on it. Am I understood?”
The captains murmured their agreement, and Matt stood. “Thank you for your time and your advice. You are dismissed.”
They saluted and bowed before filing back out the door to the study. Matt watched them go, willing his trembling legs to stay firm. Even sitting for this long had been draining. How he expected to ride to battle on Nelson was a little beyond him, but he didn’t have that many choices. With a battle this crucial, he had to march out with his men. Anything less would sow the seeds for his future destruction.
Vumorth, he noticed, had hung back as the others left. When most of them had gone, she stepped over to him and spoke quietly, her voice low enough to not reach the ears of the others. “Sire, I know our numbers will be nearly even, but many of the members of the garrison are going to be Irregulars. There might be some good fighters among them, but in terms of equipment and training…”
She shook her head. “I urge you to remember that they might not hold the line as well as members of the Guard can. Trusting too much in them may be… unwise.”
Matt nodded slowly. It was a bit of a concern. Blacksmiths were working overtime to provide the men with spears and shields, but their armor and conditioning was nowhere near that of the Crown Guards. If anything, from what he’d seen, they were going to be an undisciplined mob once the battle started, and he was uncertain whether or not they would end up routing immediately or charging out of control the instant the battle started. “Thank you for reminding me, Captain Vumorth. I trust that you and the High Guard will be able to stiffen their backs?”
She nodded. “Yes, sire. You can count on us to do our best.” Vumorth stepped back and looked back at the map, a small smile on her face. “Captain Snolt warned me you were bold, but I had not anticipated quite how that would look, close up. I look forward to demonstrating the valor of my own men.”
Matt gestured to her, and she bowed. Then she followed the rest of the captains out of the room, not looking back. Once the door closed, he half-fell back into the chair with a painful thump. He put a hand to the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe evenly. It was the best plan he had available, but would he be ready? Would any of them be ready?
There was only one way to find out, and he had a creeping suspicion that he wasn’t going to enjoy the experience.