News of the orders to Morteth seemed to leak almost immediately, something that Matt had anticipated. After all, he couldn’t expect the captains to remain entirely quiet about it, though at the very least, the public didn’t seem to know the exact details of the strategy. The people only knew that he had pulled the garrison back from Greymouth, and that Morteth would be waiting for the enemy on the western side of the mountains.
Almost immediately, he received a flurry of questioning letters from the Council. Most of them were severely polite, quietly restrained queries that were probably just confirming the information and inquiring whether he had lost his mind. Some of them were a bit more forceful and on the edge of panic than others, but he managed to answer them without much problem.
The reaction of the regular citizens was a bit more surprising. At first, it seemed as if the serfs and freeholders were just as worried about the sudden vulnerability, but then a new rumor sprang up almost immediately. One he hadn’t necessarily expected.
“You’re kidding.” He stared at Gorfeld in surprise. “They think I’m daring them to attack?”
“They seem fairly certain of it, sire.” Gorfeld’s smug expression told him exactly how the Imp was taking the news. If he was any more satisfied, his head might have popped from sheer schadenfreude. “In fact, there is currently a betting pool based on when you are going to ride out and take command from Morteth so that you can fight the enemy forces personally. The best odds are that you’ll wait about a week.”
Matt couldn’t help laughing. At least that hurt less than it had a day or two ago. Not that it wasn’t still painful, of course, but at least it was more of a dull ache. “I can barely walk, and they think I’m going to ride out in less than a week?”
“Well, some of them think you might wait two.”
He put a hand over his eyes and shook his head. “I think my reputation has gotten a bit out of control, Gorfeld.”
“Can you blame them, sire? One of your first acts was to ambush an army of Frost Elves, and then lead a single company on a raid through enemy territory for over a week. Then you fought off a band of assassins and sent orders to abandon one of our greatest fortresses.” Gorfeld shrugged. “The last ruler that reckless was the Grand Baron, and he was known for charging into battle well ahead of his troops. His guards used to have to gallop at full speed just to get there before the enemy could surround him.”
Matt snorted. “Oh? How long did he last?”
“About six months. He did not live long on the throne, but he definitely made a lasting impact.” The Imp gave Matt a meaningful look. “The only real surprise is that they are expecting you to win somehow. Apparently, the Star of Fortune has been watching over you.”
He blinked. The Star of Fortune was one of the figures from the Speakers’ tales, one that had a tendency to appear and guide the actions of heroes and villains alike. Often, it meant for a dramatic—if occasionally tragic—end. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s something that many of the Speakers are saying.” Gorfeld frowned a little. “There seem to be a lot more of them in the city now. They are taking up quite a bit of the time from our scribes, as well.”
Perhaps his decision to shelter the Speakers was going to pay off, then. He’d read that there was wisdom in courting that kind of support, and if it was paying off already, he had some gratitude to send to all of the classics he’d read. “Well, that seems helpful.”
Gorfeld chuckled. “It is, in a way. If you fail, the people will at least expect it to be in a suitably dramatic way.” He shook his head, and the chuckles subsided a bit more. “Of course, there are just as many claiming you are a child of the Warmonger, or someone sent by the Scion of Knowledge, or any number of others. Apparently, you are quite popular with the gods.”
“Better that than unpopular, certainly.” He shrugged off a vague sense of unease. “Any other signs of sabotage or assassins in the city? The last thing we need is more trouble from Suluth.”
“Not that we’ve been able to see, sire. The last assassins escaped, but we haven’t seen any sign of them coming back.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Matt turned back to his latest report from the Council. They were apparently debating the establishment of the school of Speakers. Some of the nobility were in favor of supporting it, but others were militantly opposed. It seemed like even the ones that were in opposition spoke carefully, however; the presence of a freeholder Voice having a definite effect on them. A good sign that it would keep them in check. At this rate, he had every hope that they would reach winter without any more catastrophes.
Two days later, a full two banners of Suluth’s Shadow Wargs appeared outside of Redspire.
The Guard understandably denied them entrance, though one messenger was allowed to approach the palace. In the meantime, the others set up a small campsite outside the walls, carefully positioning themselves off the main road. A banner of the Crown Guard and two of the Irregulars were called up to watch them from the walls, making sure that the possible rebels wouldn’t cause any trouble.
By the time the messenger arrived, Matt had managed to reach the throne room. He was still walking with a cane, though this time he used his mace for the support. It would probably help send an effective message on its own, but he honestly didn’t know what to expect. There had still been no news from the Sortenmoors about Suluth or anyone else, and he had no idea if these soldiers were at Redspire to challenge him directly or announce Suluth’s intention to rebel. Unfortunately, there was only one real way to find out.
The messenger entered the throne room at a hurried pace. They paused slightly at the door, noting the lifeguards standing around the room. There were a full eight of them this time, all grim faced and alert. Matt had made a simple request for renewed training for them, and the lifeguards had been drilling mercilessly ever since. None of them seemed to resent it, and Matt only hoped that the deaths of their fellow lifeguards had hammered home how serious a responsibility they carried.
At the moment, however, they seemed to serve as both an effective warning and a terrifying message for the representative of the banners outside. The Goblin looked around for a moment longer, licking his lips in obvious concern, and then timidly walked forward. He stopped when the lifeguards grew suddenly tense and knelt before the throne. Matt noted the Goblin was well short of where they would need to be to threaten him.
“King Matthew, sire, I bring a message from the Third and Fifth banners of the Shadow Hunters.” Matt gestured for the Goblin to continue. “They have heard of the treachery of Lady Suluth, and have rejected her further commands. Wishing to make their allegiance known, they have come back to Redspire to pledge themselves directly to your cause.”
Matt stared at the Goblin in silence, his mind whirling. He had expected plenty of grim tidings, but not this. “They are not allied to her, then? It must have been a difficult thing to reject their kinship with her, treachery or no.”
The Goblin winced. “Sire, regardless of her ties to us, she has betrayed the Kingdom, and stands guilty of killing a Defender of the Realm. It is not a dishonor to repay her lack of loyalty in kind.”
He stared down at the messenger, thinking through the situation. He’d already established a pattern of accepting loyalty from the underlings of traitors, ones who were willing to turn against their former masters. If he’d accepted Melren’s pledge of loyalty, and only punished him for not acting sooner, he couldn’t very well deny these warriors a similar opportunity—especially since their defection from Suluth’s ranks meant she had two fewer banners of soldiers to lead against him.
Matt leaned forward, his eyes intent. “What can you tell me of Lady Suluth? What are her aims? Where does she camp?”
The messenger let out a short breath. “Our news of her is old, sire, and likely no longer accurate. What we know for certain is that she aims to take the throne of Redspire for herself, at any cost. She is not allied with the other traitor, the Orc Teblas, and her forces have skirmished with his in the Sortenmoors.”
Then the Goblin paused, lowering his eyes. “We were able to find that she was responsible for both the murder of Lord Braden and the attack on you, sire. Once we were sure of that, our path was clear.”
Matt shifted slightly on his throne. It wasn’t much more than he already knew, but it was still some good news. If Teblas and Suluth started working together, holding the Sortenmoors would get much, much harder. “And her camp? Do you know where she is now?”
“No, sire. She once had a camp at Srik’s Fen, but the rebels under Lord Teblas attacked her there a day before we left. When we arrived, we found only corpses and burned buildings.”
The news that the rebels were fighting each other was welcome enough, but it was hard not to see the whole thing as a waste. Especially with two different invasions looming. “Do you know how many of her troops remain with her? Does she still have a full four banners under her control?”
“No, sire.” The Goblin’s lips twisted in disgust. “She has managed to lose at least two of them in skirmishes against Teblas; I’m not sure how many others remain loyal to her, or to the Kingdom. At the very least, she has also been fighting against some of the militia as well; perhaps she has taken further casualties there.”
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“And the militia? The Crown Guard in the Sortenmoors? Are they loyal to the Kingdom, or to Suluth?” Those questions were almost as crucial as the number of Hunters still under Suluth’s control. If she had swayed some of his own troops against him…
“They are loyal to the throne, sire.” The Goblin seemed to shrink in on himself slightly. “Many of them have taken grievous casualties against Teblas, but they have learned to avoid his forces and strike at their flanks. I am sure that they will do the same against Suluth, as news of her treachery continues to spread.”
Matt nodded, feeling some of the tension flow out of him. “Very well. I thank you for your news, and will send you back to your captains with a message.” He paused, letting the messenger cringe a moment longer. “Your banners are accepted back into the fold as long as they swear to support the Kingdom, and foreswear their former vows to Suluth. When the time comes, you will help me to hunt her down and kill her for her crimes. Until then, they will be watched carefully. Any hint of disloyalty will be noticed, however, and rewarded accordingly. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sire. It is clear.” The Goblin bowed again, deeply. “I will carry your judgment to them.” He paused. “Will you allow them to garrison inside the city, sire?”
Another dilemma. If the Goblins were ready to backstab him, they would do a much better job inside the city walls than they would out in the countryside. It would be a terrible irony if he had spent the past few weeks watching for spies and saboteurs, only to let nearly two hundred of them past Redspire’s defenses now.
At the same time, having them inside the city would mean that they couldn’t report back to Suluth easily. The Crown Guard and Irregulars would be able to watch them all the time, and if they were actually sincere about their newfound loyalty, then he would be able to put them to use against the eastern invaders.
Matt nodded. It was yet another compromise, but at least this one would be easy to compensate for. “Your banners will be allowed inside the city.” He caught the relieved expression on the messenger’s face, and let his own expression go grim. “Remember, this is an opportunity to prove yourselves. Even the slightest misstep, and you’ll suffer the same fate as all traitors.”
The messenger froze for a moment. He glanced at the mace in Matt’s hands and visibly swallowed. “Yes, sire. I understand, and I will make sure my captains understand.”
“Good. Now go.” Matt gestured, and the messenger scurried back out of the throne room. He waited for the Goblin to disappear through the doors before he heaved himself up with a pained groan. One of the lifeguards stepped forward, as if to brace him, and Matt waved him back with a reassuring gesture. “Don’t worry. Just…recovering my strength a bit.”
The lifeguard nodded, retreating a step. Matt could still see the traces of concern in the Imp’s eyes, though. He hoped that the lifeguards were loyal enough not to speak much of his continued infirmity, at least not to anyone else who would gossip freely. A king needed to seem invincible, especially when his nation was under siege. Wounds could heal when he had peace.
If he ever had peace.
The rest of the week was calmer, with fewer catastrophes immediately looming over him. A full two days passed without incident, beyond the continued drawn-out healing process and his own efforts to build his first Source. Autumn was being stubborn for him; perhaps it had something to do with the changing of the season.
If so, it was going to be much harder soon. The winds were already growing colder; more and more grey clouds flooded the sky, though they hadn’t been dropping rain on the city below. He remembered they had predicted winter would come in six weeks after his arrival. That time limit was just about up, though it was difficult to realize that he’d gone through so much in such a short time. He wondered if anyone back home had even noticed. Maybe the police were looking for him, but maybe not. It was something he’d find out when he got back.
Messengers continued to arrive and deliver their information to him at a continuous pace. Lord Grufen reported consistent successes in the north, though the casualty numbers showed that Itrelia had committed to a war of grinding attrition there. Matt didn’t know how many more Frost Elves she had to send into the tunnels of the Small Heights, especially given the raids that she kept launching into the northern parts of the Spirelands.
Meanwhile, Paralus had been remarkably silent. He’d sent no messages on behalf of the Western Coalition, and what times he did show up, it was to peer in at the work still going on around the sand filters to the east of the city. The work there had progressed nicely; the filters themselves had already been bricked in, and the gravel and sand poured into them. Now it was merely a matter of digging the pipes and excavating the Great Cistern beneath the city. Matt thought it shouldn’t take too much longer, but he doubted they would finish it entirely before the first snow fell.
Beyond that, there were no reports from the Sortenmoors. Nothing from the militias, nothing about Suluth, nothing about Teblas. Matt would have accepted bad news rather than no news at all, but he didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter. At least Einreth had reported in that she had taken command of the forces at Shadeglen, and that the city was both stable and seemingly loyal.
Then, on the morning of the third day, a messenger arrived from Morteth. The Noble Races were on the move.
“How long before they reach Greymouth?”
Gorfeld’s question was voiced low, but Matt gave him a sharp look, anyway. The Imp simply gave him a steady stare in return, and Matt sighed. “They should take some time to get through the pass. Morteth was saying it had already started snowing in the mountains, so he guesses they will reach the fortress in the next two days.”
“Which means they’ll be in the High Peaks a day after that.” Gorfeld looked down at the map, and his worry was clear on his face. With just the two of them in the study—minus the lifeguards, of course—the steward didn’t have to pretend to be inscrutable. “You’re sure about this plan, my liege?”
Matt nodded. Even if he wasn’t certain, it was probably too late to try to reoccupy the fortress. “I am. We’ll bait them out into the open and surround them there.” He traced a finger across the closest known villages to Greymouth. “Are they evacuating?”
The steward nodded. “Some have traveled to Ashpeak, but the rest are on the roads leading here. We should be seeing the first of them tomorrow.” He paused. “I only hope that we can find enough places for them to sleep. With the refugees from the north, and the Irregulars and prisoners as well…”
“We’ll make it work, Gorfeld. Better they get a little cold in tents here than they die warm in their burning homes.” He knew he was being harsh, but he had no choice. The only battle he could win was going to be in the hills and forests west of the High Range. Anything else would lead to disaster. “Let the Low Folk know they are coming, so they can prepare. Have the Grand Council informed as well, in case they decide to gather another round of taxes to help pay for their support as well.”
“I will, sire.” Gorfeld bowed slightly. He made as if to withdraw, but paused. “Is there anything more, sire?”
Matt gave him a wry smile. “Oh, I don’t know. You sure you still don’t want to be king instead of me?”
The steward looked stricken, glancing at the nearby lifeguards. None of them were giving any sign of reacting, but they did look a little more intent than they had been before. “Of course not, sire. You are the one who holds the throne, and I only seek to serve.”
His earnest reply took Matt off guard. Did he think the lifeguard would report the conversation back to the nobles? Surely they knew he hadn’t wanted the throne at first, right? “Just a joke, Gorfeld. I’m not accusing you of treason or anything.”
Gorfeld seemed to relax a little, though he still gave Matt an incredulous glare. “I… see, sire. Perhaps Melren could educate you on the finer points of courtly humor, as well as magic?”
Matt gave a bark of laughter. “Good point. I’ve never been the best at making people laugh.” He settled back into his seat, shifting a little as an ache or two worked its way through his guts. “I wish it hadn’t come to this, but I think in the next few days a lot of people are going to die, Gorfeld. I don’t know how to stop it, otherwise.”
“War is something we cannot avoid, sire. Not now. All we can do is survive it.”
It was true enough, though something in Matt still rebelled against the idea. He shook his head and turned away from the map. “I would hope we have a little more to do than just live through it. Something we build now has to last. Speaking of which, what are the reports from the filtration project?”
“Parufeth says that the brickwork has begun in the Great Cistern. They are already beginning to work on the new fountains and wells to connect to it.” Gorfeld paused. “He did ask why we were going to create a new pit out near the old swamps. Apparently, the ground there is not easy to excavate or build on.”
“I know, but the wetlands there are simply too good to ignore.” Matt had known exactly what he planned on using that wetland for the instant he had seen it, southwest of the city and running up against the River Crimson. It would involve quite a few pipes and such, but the next step in the building projects would be just as crucial as the filters in the northeast. Gorfeld gave him a questioning look, but Matt waved a finger at him. “Nope, you’re just going to have to trust me. Good things come to those who wait.”
The steward seemed on the edge of asking his questions anyway, but he subsided with another sigh. He shook his head. “At the very least, the winter cold should help freeze the ground enough so that they are not constantly fighting floods. They will have trouble with digging through the soil, however.”
Matt nodded. “And how is the treasury looking? Are we running dry yet?”
Gorfeld shuffled through the notes he was holding. The look on his face when he reached the right page told Matt what kind of news he was getting immediately. “We still have enough funds to last us another two years at this rate, but after that we will be bankrupt. The taxes that the Grand Council raised were enough to cover the cost of mustering the extra troops, but these building projects, and the extra cost for filling the granaries, are rapidly decreasing our available resources.”
“It’s worth it.” Matt shook his head. “How many nobles have freed their serfs? There have to be plenty who are taking advantage of the decree, if we are losing money that quickly.”
“They are still in the minority, sire, but the number is steadily growing.” Gorfeld glanced at the lifeguards again, who had gone back to ignoring the conversation. “I’d estimate that in addition to the freemen you created, roughly double that number has been freed by their former masters. Mostly the nobility that has the closest ties to the granaries here at Redspire. Those mostly based elsewhere have not shifted much at all.”
Matt grunted. So the most expensive ones had already converted, but the others were still holding the line. Maybe more would change over the coming weeks—especially as they saw the benefits of having Voices appointed from people familiar and friendly to them—but he guessed that six weeks was probably a short time to upend an entire society. Even if that society had been ruled by violent, unstable, and capricious warlords in the past.
He felt another twinge of pain and shifted again in his seat. “Well, we’ll just have to keep working on that. The more freeholders we have, the safer the Kingdom will be.” The steward gave him a skeptical glance, but did not protest. Matt continued in a lower voice. “For now, just get everything ready for us to withstand a siege here, if needed, or to accept all those refugees at the very least. We have to move quickly.”
“Of course, sire.” Gorfeld bowed a second time, this time heading directly for the door. Matt watched him go with a sigh, wondering just how differently this world’s history would mark him down compared to the sociopaths that had apparently preceded him. Given the number of bodies he was piling up, maybe he wouldn’t look so different at all.
Then again, the victors wrote the histories, so to speak, so the next few days would tell him a lot about how he would be remembered, once his reign was done. The thought did little to comfort him as he turned his attention back to the map, where the invasion army was menacing his territory. Just a few more days, and all hell would break loose.