 
### Kingdom Asunder

by Thaddeus White

Text copyright © 2016 Thaddeus White.

All rights reserved

Cover artwork by Tiramizsu

Copyright © 2016

Smashwords Edition - (Abridged)

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real-world persons, living or dead, places or events is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedicated to the people and community of SFF Chrons, who have provided much advice, encouragement and constructive criticism
Contents

Map of Northern Denland

The Queen of Penmere

Pel's Hearth

A Glorious Day

The Dragon Wakes

The Flag of Peace

The Serpent's Kiss

A King's Gift

The Royal Command

A Thousand Cheers

Uninvited Guests

Knights of the Swan

No Man's Oath

The Serpent and the Swan

Arthenigan

A Father's Wrath

Prayers for the Dead

Also by Thaddeus White

Recommended Reading

Acknowledgements

About the author

"Men must be pampered, or annihilated."

\- Niccolò Machiavelli

### The Queen of Penmere

Princess Karena closed her eyes and sighed as the heir to the throne stroked a pumice stone down the sole of her foot. In less than a week she would leave Penmere to attend her brother's wedding, but until then she was enjoying a final few days as the city's mistress. Waves crashed into the cliffs beneath Dragon's Hall and a strong sea breeze blew into her bedchamber.

She opened her eyes and kicked Prince Stephen gently in the face. The House of Penmere had been shrivelled by misfortune and war, to the extent that a cousin to the King was heir to the throne. Stephen was of middling height, but in all other regards he was half a man. The princeling was scrawny as a starved kitten, the legacy of secluding himself in libraries instead of fostering strength training for war. He not only lacked a prince's pride, he was meeker than an apprentice, and on the occasions he did venture to express himself his tongue was tarnished with a stutter that inspired only derision. Even his eyes were wrong. His right was a dark brown, and his left a vivid green, not unlike her own.

A flurry of motion caught Karena's eye. She turned to look at her balcony, brushing a long lock of dark red hair behind her ear. A little plate crammed with morsels to delight the seabirds that circled over the cliffs had been left out. Sure enough, one gull had been tempted down and was tearing into the fish. A great cat leapt from its hiding place in the shadows and crushed the bird beneath its paws. She smiled at Gorhelga's success, and the glee with which the Fenshire lynx tore into her vanquished prey.

"Would that fawning courtiers could meet the same fate," she mused.

Gorhelga, her small meal devoured, finished off the remaining fish herself and then slinked to Karena's bedside. The princess tickled the great cat under her chin, eliciting a rumbling purr of contentment.

"How do you feel about Eleanor Norcott?" she asked Stephen.

"I've, I've only met her once. Well, seen her," he replied, refusing to meet her green-eyed gaze and staring instead at the flawless white marble floor.

"Shoes," Karena commanded. He started to get off his knees but she clicked her fingers and pointed to the floor, to which he returned. "I was talking to my cat," she said. Gorhelga lowered her head and delicately picked up the shoes in her mouth, one at a time, and brought them to her mistress.

Karena pointed her toe at the prince. He slid the fur-lined boots onto her feet and set about lacing them up. "The Regent sent me a list of potential brides for you, Stephen. Eleanor Norcott was at the top of the list."

Stephen swallowed nervously as Gorhelga crept nearer and licked him. The lynx's rough tongue was big enough to cover half his face in slobber before Gorhelga returned to Karena's side.

"I'm sure she's a lovely young lady," Stephen said.

Karena laughed. "She's a feeble woman from a pathetic city. Still, there isn't exactly a fine stock of candidates for the task. Jane Falchester's vindictive and sly, Fenwick has plenty of daughters but would never marry them to a man who can't carry his weight in battle, Beckworth and Esden have none... it's Eleanor Norcott or settling for the daughter of a baron. Or a knight, Heaven forbid."

"Did he send a list of potential husbands for you?" he asked, meeting her gaze at last.

She kicked him hard, her shoe smacking into his head. He fell onto his back and before he could move Gorhelga had wrapped her jaws around his throat. The lynx had been trained since birth and did not so much as draw blood. Nor would she, so long as he was still.

"There's a time for backbone, cousin. Count yourself fortunate the House of Penmere needs every vessel of noble blood it can muster. Even a limp, feeble vessel such as yourself. Gorhelga, come."

The cat released him and sat by Karena's side.

"Take yourself back to your quarters and begin writing a proposal to Eleanor's father."

He scrambled to his feet and nodded. "Yes, cousin."

Karena waited until he had left and walked over to her balcony, avoiding the small pool of blood and feathers which were all that remained of the gull. The balcony was large enough for a feasting table and overlooked the churning, bitter sea. Spray lashed the jagged rocks beneath Penmere as waves crashed into the cliffs. A cold breeze carried the smell of salt into her chambers and stirred the red velvet curtains. Beneath her boots she trod upon a writhing stone serpent carved into the floor. Karena stroked the swirling vines and blooming flowers decorating the balustrade and enjoyed the primal violence of the sea. The whole chamber, like the rest of the Holy City, was made from impervious white marble. It was a city crafted by gods and fit for kings. And for her.

There was a knock on the door to her bedchamber.

"Come," she called.

Sir Horace, a bear of a man with a temper to match, threw the door open and strode forward to bow before her. "Forgive me, my lady, but you must come with me at once. The King has been attacked, and is near death."

"Do the magistri know? Where is he?" Karena demanded, her heart clouded with dread.

"He's in the Church of the Victorious Divine. A messenger has been sent to summon the magistri, and I took the liberty of having the grooms saddle your horse."

Karena ran from her bedchamber, trailed by the knight and her lynx. Dragon's Hall was a grand palace, a labyrinth of marble corridors and wide staircases. She raced through the palace, pushing past dawdling guards and oblivious servants, their apologies fading into the distance. When she reached the stables she mounted her horse and rode for the Church, Gorhelga running by her side and Sir Horace riding close behind.

The Church of the Victorious Divine was the furthest from the royal palace, but it also lay at the end of the Blessed Way, the wide thoroughfare that led directly from the city's gates to Dragon's Hall. If the Blessed Way were flooded the road would be wide enough for a ship to sail down it. White buildings pierced the sky, taller than any structure mortal man could craft. Hooded and helmed statues of daunting height stood guard at crossroads and dominated the Holy City's squares. Despite the immensity of the statues and buildings, the avenues that cut through Penmere were so broad there was no sense of being hemmed in. Karena was grateful for that. Even as the sun set and men and women returned to their homes, she could ride swiftly without obstruction.

No spire rose from the Church, and in form it was no different to a hundred other particularly impressive structures the gods had left behind. Ten Hollow Knights guarded the colonnade that led to its doors. She tossed the reins to Sir Horace and ran inside.

Her brother was laid upon the altar, and relief flooded Karena's heart to see one of the black-robed magistri had already arrived. William had been stripped of his armour, and most of his clothing had been torn open. Whatever shade his raiment had once been, almost all of it was crimson now. Bandages bound his limbs. The magister had placed his hands on the King's bare chest and was chanting in the old tongue.

Karena sat on the nearest pew, and watched as the mage endeavoured to save her brother's life. Gorhelga jumped onto the pew and rested her head on Karena's lap. She stroked the lynx's soft fur and listened to the magister's chant echo in the church.

She had thought she was alone, but two men rose from behind the altar and made their way towards her. Sir Hugh's bushy black beard was instantly recognisable. He was limping badly, and was supported by the second man, clad from head to toe in the battered armour of a Hollow Knight.

"My lady, we were ambushed," Sir Hugh said. "The King was impatient, and had us ride ahead to Trewithiel. His impulsiveness was fortunate. The caravan of wagons we left behind was utterly destroyed, and we barely escaped Trewithiel with our lives. When we came upon the corpses on our way back to Penmere we were attacked again. All save myself, Sir Ambrose and the King were slain, and the King was grievously wounded. It was all we could do to make it back to the city."

"Who is behind this?" she demanded.

It was Sir Ambrose who answered, his voice empty of passion or fear. "Baron Maurice Trewithiel sought the King's death, my lady. He attempted to poison the King with a gift of fatal wine, and we would have perished in the city without the aid of the Order of Lascaris. The fidelity of the Knights Lascarian saw them pay a price in blood."

The King screamed. His body convulsed and would have fallen from the altar had the magister not pinned him down. Breath stirred in his lungs and his chest rose and fell rhythmically, but his eyes did not open. The magister staggered over to the pew. Sir Hugh and Sir Ambrose made room and he slumped down beside Karena. Even though his black hooded robe was meant to confer anonymity, his stunted stature told her at once he was Verus.

"He will live," Verus stated, his voice hoarse.

She sighed with relief, and hugged him.

"I have settled his soul, and it will not flee his body this day. There are many serious wounds, and he needs much more healing. The other magistri will be here before long, and we will restore him entirely then." There was a hint of a smile within his cowl.

"Divine bless you, Verus," Karena thanked him.

She got to her feet and walked to her brother's side. The skin over his chest was unblemished by bruise or cut, a sure sign the magister's healing hands had been at work. The rest of him was a bloody mess. Old, soaked bandages and black bruises covered his body. It surprised her that the two knights had managed to reach Penmere before he died.

"Why would Maurice Trewithiel do this?" she asked them.

"This is another House's bidding," Sir Hugh asserted, grimacing with pain as he hobbled to her side. "Trewithiel is too small to try and accomplish this by itself. Someone else wanted the King dead. Only Hurstwood and Esden could hope to claim the throne, and Alfred Hurstwood's daughter is to be his wife."

Karena sighed. Her uncle had been proclaimed Regent and assumed the reins of power when William was only seven, and had had a decade to seize the crown if he had wanted to. Waiting until her brother had become old enough to fight back made no sense. John Esden was a stiff-necked miser but she could not imagine he would trample upon law and reason by declaring war on his own nephew.

"We will find out soon enough. When the other magistri arrive William will slaughter those who sought his death."

She did not have long to wait. Barely had the words left her lips than the doors to the church opened, and Cethegus, the magister magnus of Penmere, strode in. Unlike the six magistri who followed him, Cethegus wore a white robe to denote his unrivalled status within the city. Silent as ghosts, they glided towards the King and halted.

"It seems the messenger was right. The King has been injured most severely," Cethegus observed.

Karena resisted the urge to tell the ancient mage to make haste. Men became prickly and stubborn in their old age, and few men were older than Cethegus. "Indeed, the wound would have been mortal were it not for Verus. Would you heal him?"

"No."

Astonishment stilled her tongue, for a moment. "I beg your pardon?"

Cethegus sighed. "It gives me no pleasure to decline, Karena. Aurelic Law forbids the involvement of mages in political matters. John Esden has announced that William Penmere is an illegitimate bastard, and that the crown therefore belongs to the House of Esden. He has claimed the throne and intends to abdicate authority to his eldest son once the House of Penmere has either acknowledged the reign of Esden or met its end."

The magister magnus fished a letter from the sleeve of his robe and handed it to her. Karena hastily read the letter, which had been signed by her uncle.

"My lady, is it true?" Sir Hugh asked.

She nodded. "Cethegus, my brother is the King of Denland and Duke of Penmere. Maurice Trewithiel and John Esden are responsible for his life hanging by a thread. If that thread snaps because of the choice you make this day I shall hold you in the same regard as I do my uncle."

The magister magnus laughed. "Do not try and threaten me, girl. I recall that the Duke of Esden's grandfather made a similar threat when your great-grandfather began the rebellion that eventually made him master of this kingdom. Your petty power squabbles are not my concern, but ensuring we do not become drawn into them is. We will not help you, we will not harm you. In a few days, a few months, or a few years one side shall emerge victorious, and hold grand ceremonies and lavish celebrations. And absolutely nothing of importance will change. Oh, do not let a sour face spoil that exquisite beauty. Be glad Verus got here so soon. Without his intervention I suspect your brother would already be dead, and this war would already be over."

Karena slapped him. Two of the magistri stood behind Cethegus laughed, but fell silent when Gorhelga slinked to her side and growled. Another magister stepped forward menacingly, but the magister magnus waved him back.

Lightning danced across Cethegus' fingertips, crackling as it arced from one hand to the other and back again. Gorhelga hissed, hackles raised, and the hairs on the back of Karena's neck stood on end.

"I can hardly plead neutrality and then slay the King's sister in cold blood, can I?" he remarked, before clenching his fist to kill the lightning. He whispered, "Long life grants me patience, mortal, but it is not endless. If you ever lay a finger upon me again I will strip the flesh from your bones."

The magister magnus turned his back on her and led the six magistri away. "Verus, come," he ordered.

Verus got to his feet, a little steadier than before, and walked over to Karena. "My apologies, my lady. Breaking the Aurelic Law is a fine way for a magister to shorten his life."

"Would that Cethegus were more like you," she replied.

Verus stumbled and caught hold of the altar to stop himself falling. Out of sight of his fellow mages, Karena saw the lacerated flesh of her brother's arm knit together. Verus tapped the side of his nose, and then left the church with Cethegus.

"My lady, if the magistri will not heal the King I should fetch an apothecary," Sir Hugh said.

She sighed. "Barbaric as it is, yes. Have one of the Hollow Knights fetch Samuel and Catherine Killigrew, and send another to the Aurelian Palace for more guards. William cannot be moved until he is better, and we will need more than a dozen Hollow Knights to protect him."

***

Sophie roared with delight and half the men crowded around the cockpit shouted with her. The other half, whose cock had lost the fight, muttered curses and reluctantly plunged their hands into purses to pay the victorious gamblers.

"You have the Damned's own luck," Vincent Haldale, the captain of her guard, told her.

Sophie palmed the three shillings he handed her and winked at him. Already two more cocks were being chalked up on the blackboard and men were shouting the odds at one another. She jerked her head at a nearby table and led Vincent there. Half a dozen of her guard, the unfortunate few on duty, shadowed them but the rest remained clustered around the cockpit.

She slumped into a wooden chair, and Vincent sat opposite her. Sophie tapped some Fenwick Mild into her pipe, offered the leaf to her captain, who wrinkled his nose in disgust, and then lit up. A thick fog of smoke hung in the air, for more men had pipes than tankards in their hands. Here and there a glum face spoke of a perennial loser at the cockpit, but most were smiling and laughing. It was good to see her men enjoying themselves.

"It's the last proper town until we reach Esden," she mused, a plume of grey smoke rising from her pipe. Over the table her blue eyes met his brown. "Perhaps we should spend the morning in Dinsdale, and let the men enjoy some time out of the saddle."

Vincent took a swig of beer and smiled. "I'd like that. But you know the Regent is expecting us, and he's a humourless sod. Is a morning of rest worth a sermon from John Esden?"

Sophie blew a smoke ring at him. "It is. I'll be the one getting the lecture, and I'm well-versed at nodding appropriately whilst an old man witters on. Look at the men," she said, pointing her pipe at her guard. They were mingling freely with the townspeople, and burst into cheers and groans as another cock earned victory. "A little rest would do us no ill, and most of them will have sore heads. We'll tarry here until the sun's high, then set off on the road again. Besides, it'll be nice to have another day free of a veil's tyranny," she added, running a hand through her jet black hair.

"Excuse me, Lady Hurstwood," a stranger interrupted. Although he wore a black cassock and a miniature tin lantern around his neck he looked somewhat young for a priest. Pox scars disfigured his face, and he was missing several teeth. "My name is Father Gabriel. I'm travelling to Esden for the royal wedding, and was wondering if I might accompany you?"

Vincent answered before she could utter a word. "My lady already has a confessor."

The pox-scarred priest smiled. "Indeed, I saw him on my way in. I fear he's been struck by a malady most fearsome, judging by the vast quantity of vomit spewing forth from his lips."

Sophie laughed. "Gordon never could take his beer. Besides, I'm a pious sort. My confessor is probably bored from my lack of sinning. Still, you are welcome to join us."

Father Gabriel bowed his head in thanks. "Thank you, my lady. May Cerca guide you safely through the night."

"Speaking of which, I fear the darkness is waxing full, my lady," Vincent said. "It is perhaps time to retire."

Sophie puffed a cloud of smoke, the embers in her pipe glowing red. "It is hardly the witching hour, Captain Haldale."

Vincent raised an eyebrow at her, and she sighed. "Forgive me, Father Gabriel. As you can see, my nursemaid is insistent."

"Beware the sycophants, not the nursemaids, my lady. Men pour honeyed words over poisoned thoughts. There are few things as true as the irritating honesty of a dutiful man," the priest replied.

She rose from her seat and offered her hand, which Father Gabriel duly kissed. "Wise words, father. I shall see you in the morning."

***

Sophie stared at the cloudless sky. Stars studded the celestial banner but the moon had been reduced to the slenderest of crescents. By the next full moon, she would be Queen of Denland. She murmured a prayer to Cerca, to keep her and her future husband safe, and closed the window's shutter. For a little while she read a history of when the first men stumbled across the abandoned glory of Penmere. When she grew tired, she blew out the candle on her bedside table.

Scuttling on the tiles outside her window banished any hope of sleep. She threw her sheets aside, took up her dagger and crept near to the window. It was probably a rat or squirrel, she told herself as she opened the shutter. There was nothing but starlight and an empty roof. She sighed, turned back and heard the scuttling again. Before she could face the unseen creature her wrists were seized and she was pinned against the wall, her assailant silhouetted by starlight. He pressed his lips against hers and she returned his kiss.

"You could have picked a room on the ground floor," Vincent whispered.

"I like fit men."

***

Moonlight shone silver on naked skin. Sophie's head rested on his chest, so close she could hear his heart thumping. She traced her fingers across his torso, enjoying the helpless quiver of his muscles as she caressed just beneath his ribs. It was a cold night. No cloud besmirched the splendour of the starry sky and a chill wind made her discarded clothes ripple like waves in the sea. Sophie enjoyed the cold. It made her flesh tingle, and made the warmth of his body seem all the hotter.

"I should return before anyone realises I'm absent," Vincent told her.

"We have time yet," she replied, and moved to kiss him, but he turned his face away from her. She frowned at his reticence.

"We are near Esden, my lady," he said. "Soon you will be married to the King, and I will be hundreds of miles away."

"Soon," she agreed. "But not tonight."

She kissed him, and passion defied the frozen night.

***

Exhaustion in her limbs and a groggy head met the dawn's pale light. She was in her feather bed in Dinsdale's finest tavern. Father Gordon had politely declined, on her behalf, Baron Dinsdale's generous invitation for her to spend the night at his manor. She was grateful for her confessor's sound judgement. The Baron was infamous for lechery and drunkenness, and whilst she was certain Vincent would have little trouble protecting her person it would not augur well for her wedding to have a violent altercation along the way.

Reluctantly, she prised herself out of bed and called for her handmaidens. Elena, a shy, stick-thin girl, entered first. Elena had barely finished curtseying before Bertha, built like a mule and twice as stubborn, plodded in. By the time Sophie's dress had been laced tight as torture and her black hair brushed and plaited most of her fatigue had been chased away.

Father Gordon knocked on her door and enquired if she had any sins to confess. His voice was hoarse and his eyes bloodshot. She assured him she had been entirely good, and he tottered away to get some sleep. Or more beer.

It was a wise choice to spend the morning in Dinsdale. Many of her guard were groaning and staggering about like the risen dead. After enjoying a small breakfast of bacon and eggs she found Vincent and Father Gabriel fencing. The priest was holding his own, to her surprise, and they drew apart when she approached.

"Good morning, my lady," Father Gabriel greeted her, raising his blade in salute.

She raised an eyebrow. "You were not always a priest."

Father Gabriel sheathed his sword. "There are many ways to serve the Divine, my lady. My brother and I had both been tutored by monks. He became a priest, and I took up the sword. I was a soldier in Fenshire until two years ago. My brother fell prey to pestilence, and I was asked to take up his position."

"You still practice, though," Vincent said.

The priest smiled. "Hykirs aren't the only threat in this world, Captain Haldale. Clasping one's hands in prayer can help soothe a troubled heart, but highwaymen and robbers are best dealt with by the sharp end of a sword."

After treating her guard to a fine meal, Sophie led them out of Dinsdale and continued the ride west. Summer was drawing to a close, but the days were still golden. On either side of the highway hundreds of peasants worked swaying fields of barley and wheat. Further along the road sheep and cows chewed the cud and watched Sophie and her guard as they passed them by.

It was a glorious sunny day, and the setting sun obscured a large number of riders heading east. On horseback the short stature of Stuart Esden, third son of the Duke, was disguised. She recognised Sir James Seidmore, Stuart's companion in arms, but not the man on his right.

"I did not realise you were expecting an escort from Esden, my lady," Father Gabriel said.

She eyed the horsemen as they trotted towards her. There must have been over a hundred of them. "I was not."

Stuart Esden drew near, and Father Gabriel chose to keep his reply to himself.

"I did not expect to see you, Sir Stuart," she greeted him.

He grunted. "I didn't expect to be here. The old bastard sent me to escort you to the city, though the Divine alone know why. I'm sure your men could see off any rogues." He gestured at Sir James, who was actually wearing armour instead of the feminine raiment for which he was famed. "Sir James you have met before, I believe," Stuart continued.

Sophie smiled at the memory of their encounter last Belisariad, and the knight bowed his head. "I have had the pleasure," she confirmed.

"The pleasure, my lady, was all mine. I was heartbroken when I heard the announcement of your regal nuptials."

Charming as he was, she found that hard to believe. James Seidmore was an eccentric fellow, and she could not imagine him having room in his heart to love anything quite so much as his own sword.

Stuart beckoned his second companion, who trotted his horse a little closer. The stranger was stocky and had evidently taken a blunt object to the face at some point, for his nose was skewed to the right. A sword and a mace balanced his belt and, like Stuart and James, he was clad in armour.

"Bohemond Rasten, the scourge of Hykirs and Kuhrisch alike," Stuart introduced him.

"Good day to you, my lady," Bohemond said. Belying his gruff appearance, his voice was so soft she could barely make out what he was saying.

"And to you," she replied.

Sophie and Stuart rode together in the middle of the column, an awkward silence imposing stilted formality upon what little conversation eventually arose. Her efforts to kindle conversation yielded only the faintest embers, until the fire was extinguished altogether by commotion on the road ahead of them. Distant screams rang clear.

"Forgive me, Lady Hurstwood," Stuart said. "Bohemond, bring fifty of our men. Sir James, keep Lady Hurstwood safe."

She watched him and his men gallop ahead, the cacophony of hoofbeats ringing in her ears and kicking up great clouds of dust. Half her guard clustered around her, and the rest, led by Vincent, charged after the Esden soldiers.

Gods keep you safe.

"Poor Stuart. He's so much more comfortable beheading brigands than conversing with ladies," Sir James said.

Sophie stood up in the saddle and craned her neck to see what was happening. A few hundred yards down the road twoscore brigands were being routed by Stuart and Vincent. Once she found the captain of her guard she fixed her gaze upon him, and marvelled at how swiftly his sword danced in the midday sun. A great brute with a monstrous axe swung his blade at her captain from behind, but Stuart's sword sliced clean through the axeman's arm and Vincent, oblivious to the mortal peril, fought on. Her heart hammered in her chest but she forced herself to watch.

A few survivors fled the road, but before the soldiers could pursue them the ten Hurshire hounds in her guard chased them down. The huge beasts outstripped their masters and leapt upon their quarry. Snapping jaws cut short desperate screams, and the discordant chorus of righteous vengeance brought a smile to her lips. The hounds tore their prey to pieces, and when they ambled back to the road Sophie could smell the blood dripping from their snouts.

Stuart Esden returned, surcoat stained red. "My lady, they were damned fool brigands. A few of ours were wounded, but none seriously." He spoke with a broad smile across his face.

"I'm glad that you and my hounds both enjoyed some sport," Sophie said.

"When I was a boy I wanted a Hurshire hound of my own," Stuart told her. "My father refused, miserable bugger that he is."

Sophie smiled. "After we reach Esden, I'll write to my father. I'm sure we can find a pup for you."

He sighed and shook his head. "Alas, I'll be off to war again before long, and I'll have no time to train it. I shall remember your kind offer, regardless."

Later that day she arrived at a wayside inn. The Broken Reins was a small but comfortable place, and she paid for all the rooms to be given over to her and her men, refusing Stuart's generous offer to pay in her stead. The Esden soldiers and most of her guard slept in the stables or pitched camp on the other side of the road. It did not take long for Father Gordon to descend into a merry stupor, giggling to himself and spouting a strange mixture of religious verse and obscene poetry. Vincent stood watch over her as she enjoyed a good smoke and bested Father Gabriel at King's Table. When the priest left the inn to pay obeisance to Cerca she played against Sir James Seidmore.

The knight, equally famed for his peculiar preference for women's clothing as his matchless martial prowess, was an uncommon challenge for her. King's Table was a game of strategy and cunning, and she enjoyed the prolonged battle of wits. Eventually she cornered his king, and he toppled the wooden piece.

"You have vanquished me utterly, my lady," James told her. "It was hardly a fair contest, though, distracted as I was by your divine beauty. Ah well. The man who never loses is the man who never plays. Perhaps your captain would like to play with you?" he asked, nodding at Vincent, who mutely shook his head.

It was late, and the knight withdrew to sleep in his own tent. She had a couple of guards manhandle the comatose and corpulent Father Gordon to his bed before retiring for the night herself.

She did not sleep long.

A terrible howl awoke her. The hound's shriek pierced the night and for a moment she listened, dumbfounded, to its lingering pain. Vincent flung open the door to her bedchamber, sword in hand.

"Sophie, we have to flee," he told her, tossing a pair of boots, hose and tunic at her. She could smell the blood on his sword and armour. "Stuart Esden's butchering our men. They protect the inn but I fear they cannot prevail. We'll climb through a window at the back and try to lose them in darkness."

Sophie stared at him in stunned silence, and another hound's death scream sent a shiver down her spine. She threw the garments on and ran after him out of her room, eyes darting this way and that. Several of her men were braced against the door, which was being pounded from outside. Others crouched beside windows, ready to stab anyone who tried breaking in that way.

"Divine bless you," she murmured. Her guards spared a moment to echo her prayer.

Vincent opened one of the rear window shutters a fraction and peered out into the night. He beckoned her nearer, and she looked back at her guards. The wooden door was beginning to splinter apart, and it would not be long before her last men were slain.

"I'll go first. Wait a moment, then follow," Vincent ordered.

She watched him clamber outside, and listened for danger. When it seemed safe, she climbed out of the window and ran into the cold darkness with him. Fear and fury drove her on, and soon her legs were burning.

The stars were out in force, and against their silver splendour the Blenscaw Mountains were silhouetted. Vincent did not let her pause, or look back at the carnage at the inn. The sounds of battle soon faded behind her. Fear began to recede but her anger remained undiminished.

"We'll reach the mountains and find a pass." Even though there had been no sign of pursuit Vincent kept his voice low. "Can't risk Illingham Castle, if it's the Duke rather than his son alone who wants you."

"Why would he do this?" she whispered, straining to keep up with his long marching stride.

Vincent glanced backwards, but did not slow down. "The madness of power. John Esden has been the Regent for a decade. It seems he is not yet ready to give it up." He raised a hand and drew to a halt. "Can you hear that?"

Hoofbeats were distant, but drawing nearer.

They ran, and Sophie prayed to stumble upon a cave or abandoned mine, anything that could save them from capture. Cerca did not answer her prayers. A pair of riders found them and lit their torches. Vincent drew his blade and she shrank back, but the flames drew more men until a score surrounded the pair of them. Stuart and Bohemond were amongst them.

"Kill him," Bohemond ordered.

Swords scraped from scabbards and naked steel closed in on Vincent from every side. He raised his own blade, and turned this way and that, ready to fend off the first thrust.

"No," Stuart intervened before anyone could attack the captain. Torchlight flickered against his face as if he were a demon from the deepest pit of Hell. "My lady, it saddens me that I must hold you prisoner. We shall take your captain captive, and keep the pair of you in comfort. But if you seek escape, know that it will be upon _his_ person that the punishment will be inflicted."
Pel's Hearth

Sir Hugh always thought that the colossal white buildings of Penmere acquired an ominous majesty at night. Starlight was reflected by the strange stone from which the Holy City was crafted, and a man could wander the streets in the dead of night without missing his step. Until the sun rose the curfew was in effect, but Hugh had royal business to conduct.

The home of Percival Bligh, Captain of the City Watch, was a grand edifice of towering stone. It had also been vandalised. A large piece of parchment had been pasted to the door, one corner flapping in the wind. The sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, and Hugh strained his eyes reading the untidily penned words scrawled across the proclamation. He swore, tore down the parchment, and hammered his fist on the door.

After some time, Percival, bleary-eyed and unshaven, opened the door and squinted at him. "Hugh? What bloody time is it?"

The knight thrust the proclamation at the captain, who ran his eyes over the text. "Bloody marvellous. John Esden must be stark raving mad. The Divine would see the whole world burn before they allowed a curly-haired cretin like Maurice Trewithiel to rule the Mere." Percival sighed. "Anyway, it's early. Come in for some beer and breakfast."

Hugh shook his head, ignoring the groaning of his neglected stomach. "Would that I could. I've been commanded to attend Princess Karena at breakfast."

Percival laughed. "I didn't think she had men for breakfast."

Hugh cleared his throat, glad his beard served to hide his reddening cheeks. "I leave Penmere earlier than planned, at midday. You can have the arms and armour ready for me then?" The provisions to bolster the garrison at the Vinefort were largely from the royal armouries, but some had been requisitioned from the City Watch.

"Aye, we can manage that. I take it the princess is running you ragged?"

Hugh sighed. "So she is, but I can't complain. I'm not sure she's slept in the last three days. If I were you I'd add a few more nocturnal patrols, and make sure you get these taken down," he advised, taking back the proclamation. "The princess will be after blood when she learns of them."

Percival yawned, his mouth a cavern of teeth yellow and missing. "Sound words, Hugh. I'll give my men a kick up the arse. Best of luck at the Vinefort," he said.

Hugh left the captain to drown his fatigue in beer.

By the time he limped back to the royal palace the city was illuminated by the pale light of dawn and a handful of people were starting to go about their business. When he walked into the King's council chamber he found Princess Karena wide awake, a glass of wine in one hand and a letter in the other. Whatever other vices Princess Karena possessed, sloth was not one of them.

Hugh bowed to the ruler of Penmere, and gave Sir Horace, stood behind his mistress, a curt nod which was returned in kind.

"Sit. Eat," the princess ordered him, waving the letter at the spread on the table. Sponge cake, honey-soaked nuts, biscuits, white bread, fresh fruit and flagons of beer and wine covered most of the table. Only a small corner had been kept clear for the correspondence the princess had evidently been working her way through.

He sat beside her. "I received a message from the Grandmaster of the Order of Lascaris," he said, taking a small loaf of bread and a flagon of Midnight Lamp. "The Knights Lascarian have declared a private war against the person of Maurice Trewithiel. Happily, they are willing to fight alongside us."

Karena smiled, and raised her glass. "To the Knights Lascarian."

"To the Knights Lascarian."

He ate a little bread before broaching a less pleasant topic. "Traitors within the city have been posting these proclamations on every street." He handed the parchment to her. "I ordered the Watch to better enforce the curfew, and tear down every one they could find, but doubtless some will be seen."

Hugh chewed his bread and watched the princess' green eyes absorb the message scrawled onto the parchment. To his surprise, she smiled, and set the proclamation aside. "We knew the Esden traitor had claimed the crown. Whilst displeasing there are men of Penmere willing to forsake their lord, Esden has been foolish." Karena stroked a particular line of text with a fingertip. "Making Maurice Trewithiel the Duke of Penmere will guarantee the loyalty of the Viscount of Harcester to us. He may not be overfond of us, but the Viscount will loathe the prospect of a jumped up baron becoming his liege lord."

Hugh finished off the last of his bread. "If the people think the King is dead, and that Trewithiel has the backing of more than half the kingdom, it will encourage rebellion."

Karena helped herself to a slice of sponge cake, and tossed a second piece onto the floor. Gorhelga pounced upon the gift and wolfed it down.

"The King is weak, but getting stronger. I shall permit a few trustworthy men to visit him and spread the truth that he yet lives. As for the traitors, let me worry about them. You have all the provisions you require to bolster the Vinefort?"

Hugh nodded.

Karena popped the final morsel of cake into her mouth and let her fingers dangle over the edge of her chair's arm. A small frown carved a line of worry into the pale skin of her forehead. Gorhelga padded over and licked the crumbs from her fingers. "Take this," she said, pushing a small piece of parchment towards him with her left hand.

Hugh unfolded it, and scratched his bushy beard. It was a writ of command, to claim authority over all the forces of the Mere to crush the Trewithiel rebellion and restore order. "You flatter me with your trust, my lady. But I cannot believe the Viscount of Harcester will welcome his men being led by a knight. Besides, Lucien Mercator is captain of Penmere's guard."

She scowled. "Even for my brother, that appointment was eccentric. We cannot have a Felarian deliver us victory, Sir Hugh. Esden would claim we are unable to fight for ourselves or, worse, are puppets of the Felarian king. It is vital to reassert the dominance of Penmere over the lesser cities of the Mere. This requires crushing Trewithiel and leading the unified forces of Penmere, Harcester and Longcove." Karena sipped her wine. "Divine go with you, Sir Hugh. When next we meet, I expect you to have Maurice Trewithiel's severed head ready for me to admire."

Sir Hugh bowed, and left the ruler of Penmere. Once he was alone in the corridor, he raised his eyes to the heavens and mouthed a silent prayer.

***

There was nothing like throwing a corpse off a bridge to work up an appetite. Except throwing thirty corpses off a bridge, of course. Benjamin Hawes took the arms of the last body, and Gareth the Green picked up the legs. They swung the corpse and tossed the damned thing into the Dorlas. Ben rubbed his sore back, grateful the labour was ended. He glanced at the twenty men stationed a few yards away, shields and spears ready. Even with the arms and armour removed, to say nothing of the purses, the bodies had been a heavy burden.

"That's the last of them, Pete," Ben called to his sergeant. "Get back inside, and fetch the men something to eat."

The chainmail, helmets, swords, spears, shields, bows and arrows were piled high in a large wheelbarrow. The garrison did not want for armour, but the extra arrows would come in handy for the next attack. Ben cast his eyes over the long bridge at the fort on the Ashcombe side, but nobody was coming. He murmured a prayer of thanks to Pelasgus and wheeled the barrow into Pel's Hearth. The little fortress that guarded the Mere's side of the Dorlas was a remnant of ancient days, before the Mere had become part of Denland. Nowadays the castellan's post was seen as a reward. A man could spend his days idling by the pleasant riverside whilst his underlings collected tolls from merchants crossing the river. It was warm, for the Mere, and far from both the Kuhrisch and Hykirs.

And now the hearth of Pelasgus was the front line in a war that had taken the kingdom by surprise. The herald had arrived as the sun rose, and had barely left before soldiers from Ashcombe attempted to take Pel's Hearth unawares. The messenger's haste had cost them their lives, and saved the fortress from falling.

Ben crossed into the fort's interior, and behind him the gates were pulled shut. Once they were barred the small portcullis was lowered, thick chains clanking as its immense weight descended. Its peeling black paint was disfigured by patches of rust, and he wondered how long the ancient metal would last if it encountered the steel head of a battering ram. Before getting himself something to eat Ben climbed the narrow stair to the wall and ensured plenty of archers stood ready for the next assault.

"How are you faring?" he asked Grandpa Ken. The lad was barely sixteen years old, and looked younger. It was odd to think he was older than Ben had been when he first took up arms.

Grandpa Ken glanced at him and then turned his gaze back to the fort at the other end of the bridge. "I was dicing with those men last week. One of them owes me a bloody shilling. And now they're trying to kill us. It's not right, sir."

Ben put his hand on the youth's shoulder. "The gods'll see us through this. And where's more godly than the hearth of Pelasgus himself?"

Grandpa Ken gave him the ghost of a smile.

"Keep your eyes peeled. I'll send more arrows up, and some bread and beer for you."

"Thank you, sir."

Ben strolled along the wall with the ease of a yeoman farmer inspecting one of his fields and encouraging the peasants tilling the soil. Most of the garrison were old men and young boys, well capable of collecting a toll but not chosen to test their mettle in battle's blazing furnace. They were seeing out their service in a safe place or learning the ropes before they were shuffled off to protect Fenshire or the northern coast. Or they had been, until the Duke of Esden's ambition had turned the River Dorlas into the border between his realm and that of the true king.

At the end of the crenellated wall he found Peter Lawford, leaning against the battlements and keeping one eye on the long bridge.

"Reckon we'll keep it?" Ben asked.

"Course we will. Not got as many men as I'd like, but you can't ford the Dorlas for miles. If they want to try charging into a hailstorm of arrows, let them. The Earl of Ashbury won't want to waste his men. It'd ruin this year's vintage if half the peasantry in Ashcombe got killed."

Ben smiled. "George does love his wine. Go take your fill of food and drink. I'll keep an eye on things up here until you get back."

Pete did not take his eyes from the bridge. "Balderdash. You weren't at breakfast, and you can't command if you pass out. Go get a bite to eat, I'll keep my eyes sharp up here."

He did not argue. Pete was right, hunger was the only thing filling his belly. Ben left the wall and, after having the quivers taken up to the archers, visited the mess. Vegetable stew and beer was a fine dinner, but when he swigged the brew he almost spat it out.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded.

Gareth the Green laughed. "Knotwood's Finest. The last proper stuff was drunk at breakfast, so you'll have to make do with cat's piss."

"So much for the privilege of leadership," Ben muttered.

The last mouthful of radish and carrot was barely swallowed when Grandpa Ken burst into the mess, red-faced and breathing hard. Ben and Gareth leapt to their feet in response.

"Are we under attack?" Ben demanded.

"No," the youth answered as he got his breath back. "One man, with a white flag." He gulped air, and continued, "Pete said he wanted to parley, and to come tell you."

Ben sighed with relief. "Thanks, lad. Get back on the wall."

Grandpa Ken ran off like a scalded cat. Ben and Gareth wandered over to the portcullis, and the castellan had the men on watch raise it.

"Sixpence says he offers me a bribe to surrender the fort," Ben said, unbuckling his sword belt and handing it to his friend.

"Course he bloody will. I'm not taking that bet," Gareth replied.

Ben shrugged, and the two men together manhandled the timber beam that barred the gates. "Be prepared for an attack," Ben said.

Gareth smiled. "Don't worry. I'll make sure the archers stand ready."

The gates were opened, and Ben saw a single figure eighty yards away, well within range of an arrow. He did not appear to have any weapons, and held a white flag to indicate his intentions. Ben did not recognise him, which was surprising. The garrisons of the two forts had enjoyed a healthy rivalry until the war began. The tavern had been their battlefield, dice and King's Table their arms. The flag-bearer was not a member of the regular garrison.

Ben strode down the bridge and stopped ten yards from him. The stranger had a short black beard and a single braid in his shoulder length black hair. On his sumptuous doublet was a broken bridge of silver thread.

"I am Mark Fellbridge," the stranger revealed himself as the Baron of Fellbridge's son. "You command Pel's Hearth?"

Ben folded his arms. "Aye."

"I appreciate your loyalty, but it is misguided. Not a single noble house south of the Dorlas supports Black Will's claim to the throne, and the boy himself may well be dead. Who else from the House of Penmere could you follow? The librarian? The she-wolf?"

Ben tapped the willow tree dangling from his belt. The tin tree was a symbol of Zenobia, the Divine who healed men's ills. "I would follow the true ruler of Denland, whoever that was, and not an old man who tried and failed to commit regicide."

The noble sighed. "Benjamin Hawes, the men of Ashcombe know you're a decent man. Don't throw your life away fighting for a bastard. I've spoken with the garrison," he said, nodding towards the Ashcombe side of the Dorlas. "They all say you're a man of sound judgement, to be respected. Use that prudence now. Pel's Hearth is going to fall to the rightful King of Denland. Better it do so without bloodshed."

"Fine words, but they only come after the sword failed you. Your blood painted the bridge, and now your tongue sings a song of peace," Ben replied. "I don't have many men, but the bridge is long and we've arrows aplenty."

Mark Fellbridge bowed his head. "You do indeed have few men. Fewer than you realise."

Pain stabbed into his back and he staggered forward. A bodkin arrowhead had pierced his back and was protruding from his torso. Ben fell onto one knee and heard men screaming from within the fort. The noble sat beside him.

"Peter Lawford and Gareth the Green are more sensible men. Both were unable to stop the defence against the first attack, alas. Afterwards, Peter gathered his wits and realised where his loyalty lies. It is a shame I could not persuade you, Ben. You seem like a good man."

Ben slumped onto his side. He could not feel anything but the burning agony lancing his lung, and his vision was swimming as if he were drunk. Someone, it must have been Mark, put his arms around Ben and dragged his tormented body over to the side of the bridge.

"Damn you to Hell," he murmured.

Mark laughed. "You first."

He was tipped over the balustrade and plunged into the Dorlas.
A Glorious Day

Karena sat on the balustrade, staring out at the churning sea and shivering. Her frozen fingers played with the silver swan pendant hanging from her neck. It was a cold day, and the sea was full of fury. Salt was thick on the wind, and the sun cloaked by dark clouds. She looked down at the violent waters far beneath her, and wished she could fling the city's traitors into the sea. It would be a small thing to have the Hollow Knights hack her visitors to pieces, or let Gorhelga hunt them one by one. But if half the senior guildsmen in the city went into the royal palace and never emerged it would only stoke the fires of rebellion. It turned her stomach, but until Trewithiel was on the back foot, or destroyed outright, she needed the guilds to help keep the city obedient.

The City Watch tore down proclamations of support for John Esden and Maurice Trewithiel every night, but there were always more. Thankfully, most people seemed dubious of the former and outright hostile to the latter, if only for breaching the ancient bond of trust a man extends to his guest.

Yesterday she had commissioned several scribes to counter the proclamations. Stephen, who was good for something at last, had assisted them. New posters were put up on her orders, deriding the Baron of Trewithiel as an untrustworthy tavern owner who murdered his guests, stole their possessions and used their flesh to fill his pies. Horace claimed the mockery was going down a treat with Penmere's people.

"My lady, Lord Farrington and Lord Mallen are here," Sir Horace called to her.

She left the balcony, and strode into the warmth of the King's council chamber, the train of her red velvet dress dragging on the floor.

Lord Baldwin Mallen, the Master of the King's Household, was the first to enter. Decades of service had etched deep lines into his hairless head, and his body had begun to stoop beneath the cruelty of time. He wore no jewellery, save for a silver willow tree which dangled from his belt. Praying to the Divine of healing had become a sign of fealty to the crown.

Lord Seymour Farrington was so slender it appeared someone had painted flesh upon a skeleton. Skinniness was exacerbated by his great height, which forced him to duck to enter the high doorframe to the council chamber. Some claimed he was half-Kuhrisch, and although he lacked barbarian bulk such lineage would explain his prolonged longevity and great height. He was one of the few men to whom Karena looked up.

The two lords bowed, and waited for her to sit before occupying the chairs on her left and right.

"You must be delicate in your handling of the situation, my lady," Baldwin Mallen advised her. "These guildsmen have the arrogance of wealth unrestrained by the chains of responsibility that bind the nobility."

"Any wise words, Seymour?" she asked Lord Farrington.

The old man poured a golden goblet of wine for each of them. "When you need a moment to think or soothe irritation at their boorishness before replying, take a small sip of wine. It will purchase you a little time to answer calmly."

Two of the guildmasters were so horrendously bloated they struggled to squeeze their overflowing fat into the generous confines of the stone chairs that surrounded the council table. The third was thin as a snake, and shared a serpent's morals. All wore thick furs, and gaudy golden chains hung heavy around their necks. Every finger was encircled by a ring studded with a glittering gemstone, as if they were princes from a far flung land displaying their prosperity in ostentatious ornamentation.

Guild members were growing increasingly lax, or even defiant, when it came to paying their dues to the treasury. And so she had summoned three of the most important guildmasters in the city to rectify the situation.

"It's all well and good to witter on and complain about taxes not being paid, but the law is quite clear," Master Gormsal rumbled, his chins wobbling with every word. "The King has not had his coronation, so the power to levy taxes remains with the Regent, who has since declared himself ruler of Denland. If we ought to pay any taxes, then it should lawfully be to the Duke of Esden. Naturally, our loyalty to the House of Penmere prevents us from aiding your enemy but you cannot complain, given we are simply obeying the law."

Karena reached for her goblet, and saw it was empty. She looked across at Gormsal, Sands and the skeletal Whithers, and scratched Gorhelga behind the ears to calm herself. "I am glad you recalled we are at war. Expenditure is a matter of royal interest, and the treasury requires that the guilds pay their dues. Failure to comply during a time of war, when every pound, every shilling, every penny is vital, would seem to be an act of treason."

Whithers rested his gaunt face on one hand and stared at her. "Princess Karena, the guilds of Penmere are not your enemy. Accusing us of treachery is uncalled for. The merchants have behaved honourably. If anything, it is the nobility that has besmirched its reputation. Who now would accept an invitation to dine with Maurice Trewithiel?"

The other two guildmasters chuckled.

"Treason is a capital offence," Lord Farrington reminded them. "All Penmere asks is that you motivate the guilds to pay their taxes."

Sands, the fatter of the two swollen creatures, scoffed. "Let us be honest. We can try and encourage our members to do as you ask, but threats of violence cannot achieve what you want. Will you massacre the merchants? Who will there be then to pay any taxes? If terrifying the innocent and driving the horrified people against your reign is your desire, then by all means murder the guildsmen whose hard work allows trade to thrive."

"It is my brother's reign, not mine," Karena corrected him. "I am only governing the city during his convalescence. Perhaps I am too kind and soft-hearted, as is the way with women. Perhaps the King will vent his righteous fury on his faithless merchants once he rises from his sickbed. But then, he need not even leave his sickbed. All he need do is whisper to the Hollow Knights his anger, and your sentence."

Gormsal, Sands and Whithers exchanged cautious glances with one another.

"My lady, the King can be reassured that all of us, and our fellow guild members, are loyal to the core. I am sure a sensible compromise can be reached," Whithers said.

She did not even pretend to smile. "Speak your compromise."

Whithers replied, "All arrears to be written off as an administrative error during a time of great uncertainty and the chaos of war. And one, or more, of us to be permitted to see the King to assess for ourselves his health."

The princess leaned back in her chair, and the two lords beside her leaned close.

"It is not unreasonable, my lady," Lord Mallen said.

Lord Farrington frowned. "I would accept, though it would gall me."

Karena picked up her empty goblet and stared into it. She considered their counsel as her golden reflection returned her gaze. After a few moments, she put the vessel down and looked across the table at the guildmasters.

"The King's health is fragile. I will not permit the likes of you to pollute his chamber with your presence," she told the three men. "However, I shall acquiesce on the arrears, on condition all taxes shall be paid promptly and in full. Failure to do so shall be considered treasonous, and dealt with appropriately."

Their eyes widened, to her pleasure, and they urgently conferred, before reaching agreement. She stared after them as they plodded from the chamber, and sighed.

"What ails you, my lady? The meeting was a success," Lord Mallen said.

She smiled sadly. "If I were a man I would be king. And if I were, those bloated fools would tremble at my shadow."

***

The moon and stars were veiled by ominous clouds that threatened to burst at any moment. A chill wind uttered haunting whispers and drove the faint memory of warmth from Hugh's skin. Crawling up the hillside offered no shelter from the northern wind. The first glimpse of the campfire on the summit made him draw to a halt, and he raised his hand to signal that his men ought to go no further. The enemy, his countrymen, were clustered around the fire, warming their hands. One turned a pigeon on a spit while a second kept a beady eye on stew bubbling in an iron pot. Most of them were asleep, and a few unlucky fellows wandered around the camp's perimeter, searching the night for danger and casting longing looks at the fire.

Hugh laid flat on the hillside, and waited. He did not turn his head to see if his men were doing the same. Movement was more easily discerned than a still man and he had no intention of helping the sentinels.

Just as his foot was starting to become numb, a hundred torches flared into life to the south. The line of torches were heading past the hill, towards Trewithiel. The first sentinel to spot them stared for a moment in shock and then shouted the alarm. Drowsy men staggered free of sleep to investigate, and those who had already been awake ran to see what threat they faced.

Hugh rose to his feet, unsheathed his sword and ran at the camp. The patrolling men had all gone to the other side of the hill, and saw neither him nor the twoscore men who ran with him. Hugh charged into the camp unopposed. The cook looked up from his pot of stew, and his mouth gaped with shock. The knight buried his sword in the cook's throat, braced his foot against the head and wrenched the blade free, blood spraying in the firelight.

The slumbering souls, who had not been stirred by the sentinel's cry, slept the eternal sleep as his men crushed skulls beneath their maces and opened gullets with their blades. It was a silent massacre. By the time the enemy drawn to the southern lights realised what was happening, they were too few to fight back. Most ran to Old Sutton's illusion of safety, but a few laid down their arms and surrendered.

"Do we take prisoners?" Grandpa Ken asked. The lad was young, but had acquitted himself well. He had survived the fall of Pel's Hearth by throwing away his chainmail and leaping into the Dorlas.

Hugh looked at the five who had relinquished their weapons and raised their empty hands. All wore surcoats marking them as Trewithiel men, rather than Fellbridge soldiers.

"Aye, bind them hand and foot, but don't bloody them."

While the prisoners were restrained, Hugh took the roast pigeon and stew from the fire and distributed the food to his men. He unlaced a pouch on his belt, took out a handful of leaves and fed them to the flames. The fire leapt and transformed into a pale green.

One of his men shrieked like a girl at the sudden change, and the night resounded with laughter at his high-pitched horror. Hugh smiled, and looked across at the other hilltop campfire. It too had become a light green.

"A good night's work," he told the soldiers. "Both hills are ours, and not a single one of us lost his life or suffered even a wound. The Damned will have to make do with traitors for company."

It rained during the night, but even that did not diminish the men's spirits. Any attempted counter attack would suffer, for the steep hillsides would be reduced to muddy slopes. More men joined the two camps to reinforce them while the main body of the army approached. During the night Hugh and his fellows watched as the bearers of the hundred torches were attacked. Laughter lit up the stormy night.

"Behold Mark Fellbridge, the Cattle Slayer!" one of the soldiers declared, as, one-by-one, the torches were extinguished.

Hugh laughed. Tying torches to the horns of cattle and driving them towards Trewithiel had been a great success. The hills were taken, and Mark Fellbridge, lauded after taking Pel's Hearth, humiliated with a bovine battle.

***

When the sun rose it shone upon the patchwork army sent to vanquish Trewithiel and crush the invaders from Ashcombe. Just shy of eight hundred picked men had been mustered from Penmere, Longcove and Harcester, bolstered by a smattering of mercenaries and a handful of Knights Lascarian. Hugh eyed the colourful tents of the army's camp, situated between the two captured hills, and drank his wine. Old Sutton had to fall swiftly. Lucien Mercator, captain of Penmere's soldiers, had been sent to reclaim Pel's Hearth, but until it was back in safe hands enemy forces could trespass upon the Mere at will. The longer Hugh lingered, the more time John Esden had to march his men across the Dorlas and bolster Trewithiel's army.

He shifted his gaze to Old Sutton. It was an ancient mining town, with smelters and craftsmen aplenty. No walls ringed the town, for no Kuhrisch raid had ever penetrated so far south. There was no castle either, thank the Divine, but a grand stone church had been erected on the foundations of the town's wealth. Half a mile from the church, a fortified manor house had been built by the town's lord, a knight by the name of Terence Feldham. Whether he had fled or turned his coat Hugh did not know, but it scarcely mattered. The Fellbridge banner flew from his manor, and blood would flow before sunset.

Hugh finished his wine and got to his feet. However irksome the task, he was in command. Karena's whim had not gone down well with Silas, son of the Viscount of Harcester, or Quick Nick Highford, son of the man who had been Earl of Highford, before its ceding to Felaria a decade ago. Both men thought themselves more important than a mere knight, and both men were right. But Princess Karena ruled the Mere until her brother's recovery, and until then their fealty belonged to her.

The army's camp thrummed with activity. Men were chattering about the battle to come, dicing and playing King's Table. The clang of smiths' hammers and the bloody metallic scent of their forges filled the air. Last night's rain had turned the ground underfoot into little more than a quagmire, and Hugh's sabatons and greaves were spattered with mud by the time he reached the sprawling red tent that belonged to Silas Harcester. He made to enter, but one of the two men flanking the entrance placed a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Forgive me, Sir Hugh, but my lord gave me orders that none were to be admitted," the guard, who did not look him in the eye, stated.

The knight looked down at the man's hand, which he withdrew. "I'm going to speak with Silas. The army's command is mine, and you know it. I would advise you not to place a hand on me again, unless you have a burning desire to dine with Arintheus."

The guard looked uncertain, and Hugh took the opportunity to enter the tent. Silas was eating breakfast at his table, with Nick Highford alongside him. The Baron of Longcove had fallen ill, or so he claimed, and had sent his men under the command of Nick Highford. Angharad, Silas' lynx, sat beside her master, fur black as night and green eyes watching Hugh carefully.

"If it isn't Lord Glencarn," Silas greeted him, standing and bowing.

Hugh folded his arms, to keep his hands from straying towards his sword. "The war council is in half an hour, on the southern hill." He stepped towards Silas and leaned in close enough to smell the man's rancid breath. "Tell your men to contravene my authority again and you shall pay for it."

"And what will you do, knight?"

Hugh smiled. "I was entrusted with the leadership of this army by royal authority. If you dispute my right to command I am content to meet you on the field of honour, and we can let the sword determine the army's master." He let the thought linger, and enjoyed the flicker of doubt on Silas' face. "I intend to obey my orders, as you shall obey mine. Be on the hill, if you want your opinion to count for something."

He left the tent before either man answered and went hunting for the army's other leaders. Lucien might be a Felarian, but Hugh missed the man's levity and common sense. Hugh murmured a prayer that Pel's Hearth would fall easily. Gregory Dunsmore, a chaptermaster of the Order of Lascaris and an old friend, was the next man he visited. The warrior-monk was at prayer with the thirty Knights Lascarian he led.

"How are you getting along with the nobles?" Greg enquired after he rose from his knees.

Hugh grunted. "I can't blame them for being angered a lowly knight is in command, but they behave like bloody children. Have you seen Natalya?"

The Lascarian pointed him in the right direction, and he wandered off to find the makeshift leader of the mercenaries. Kuhrisch raids in the Mere were too unpredictable to provide standing work for large mercenary companies. The ragtag individuals and small bands that had joined the army had elected Natalya, chief of a dozen Kuhrisch sellswords, as their leader. He found her dicing with one of her men.

"There's a war council on the southern hill," he said.

She got up, and he found himself craning his neck. Natalya stood a head taller than him, and he was no small man. A black eagle had been tattooed around her left eye, contrasting starkly with her chalk-white skin. Her midnight blue hair was bound in a short ponytail. Like all Kuhrisch, she spurned armour and wore barbarian trousers and a sleeveless jerkin. Sunlight glinted on the obsidian head of her two-handed axe.

"You Dennishmen and your councils," she muttered.

She walked with him back to the southern hill. The others were all waiting for them. Silas and Quick Nick did not bother to hide their disdain for Natalya's presence.

"I sent a message offering clemency if they surrendered," Hugh said, "but there has been no reply. We've got to take the town as swiftly as possible. There's no moat, wall or towers, but the church and manor house are flying the Fellbridge flag. According to our esteemed guests," he nodded at the five prisoners, who remained under guard, "there are two hundred men from Fellbridge, and a hundred or so from Trewithiel. I plan to have the soldiers from Harcester work with the Knights Lascarian to assault the church. Meanwhile, I will lead the contingents from Penmere and Longcove, as well as the mercenaries, against the manor house. The assaults will occur simultaneously to prevent the enemy aiding one another."

"Are we taking prisoners?" Greg asked.

"If they want to surrender, let them," Hugh answered. "Princess Karena wants to encourage any potential deserters from Trewithiel to feel they will be welcomed with open arms, rather than a hangman's noose."

Quick Nick spat. "I can't say it's a foolish notion, but it sits ill with me. A noose is precisely what a traitor deserves."

Silas stared at the town and turned back to face the other leaders. "Maybe there's a better way. Attack the church with everyone, and leave the way clear to the manor. When they flee and are all crammed in there, ring it with archers and set the building ablaze."

"And if the fire spreads to the town?" Hugh asked. "Burning enemies is one thing, setting fire to our own town is quite another. Princess Karena commissioned me to retrieve Old Sutton, not burn it to the ground. Any other questions, or suggestions?"

Silas laughed mirthlessly. "In this corner of the kingdom we have more men, Hugh. But tally up the armies we could raise and those of Esden and you'll find we're outnumbered five to one. We can't afford to throw away soldiers when we do not need to. There's no guarantee the fire would take hold of the town, and, if it did, better to sacrifice a hundred peasants or so than risk hundreds of soldiers."

"If you're scared of war, little man, run back behind your stone walls," Natalya retorted.

"Still your tongue, heathen," the noble answered back.

Natalya took a long stride towards Silas and Hugh stepped between them. "I think the time has come to unleash wrath on the enemy, rather than one another. Nick, Natalya, gather your men and report to me. Silas, command the fight against the church."

The three of them left, and Hugh muttered to Greg, "Keep an eye on Harcester. He knows how to fight, but I'm not sure he'll be keen to follow orders."

The Lascarian nodded. "Divine go with you, Hugh."

"Divine go with you, Greg."

***

Hugh had shunned much of his armour for the nocturnal assault on the hilltop. Too much metal could alert even a dozy sentry, and his helmet restricted his vision badly. But the attack on Old Sutton would happen in daylight, and only when he wore his padded jacket, chainmail hauberk and plate armour from head to toe did he feel the strange calm ahead of battle descend upon him. Practically every man in the army had at least a chainmail byrnie or hauberk, except the few Kuhrisch mercenaries. Not one of them wore so much as a breastplate, and the only metal adorning their bodies were torques and armlets.

"You look ridiculous," Natalya told him.

He raised his visor so he could see her better, and smiled. "Ridiculous, and alive. You do realise they're going to be shooting arrows at us?"

She ran an eye over the glinting obsidian head of her two-handed axe. "Aye. And unlike you I'll see them coming."

The manor was on the edge of the town. Hugh had the men-at-arms and archers from Longcove and Penmere approach it first. His score of knights would be prime targets for archers positioned at the windows, and Natalya was right about his field of vision. The men-at-arms accompanying the archers wheeled mantlets to protect them. The large wooden shields had a narrow horizontal strip cut out to allow those crouching behind to see who was attacking them.

"Shame we don't have a trebuchet," Quick Nick observed. Like Hugh, he was covered in plate armour and had his broadsword ready. Both men were at a safe distance from the manor, and had their visors raised to watch how the battle began.

"If we had time on our side, I would've had a siege engineer with us to make one," Hugh agreed. "But we can't dally and risk Trewithiel sending reinforcements, especially with Pel's Hearth in enemy hands."

The men-at-arms and archers crept forward, heads down and bodies hunched behind their mantlets. Now and then a lucky shot from the manor struck one of the attackers, but there were more arrows flying towards the manor than from it. Slow attrition whittled away the defending archers, and eventually no more appeared at the windows.

"There's a side entrance," Hugh told Quick Nick, pointing at the distant door. "I'll try the front doors, you attack the side. It's possible they'll be distracted if we assault both at once."

The noble nodded, and went to ready his men.

"Anything you want to say to your men?" he asked Natalya.

She grunted. "We're killing people, not writing poetry."

Hugh unsheathed his broadsword and held the blade aloft. His men-at-arms and the few knights he led raised their spears or swords in response. A crude battering ram fashioned from a tree trunk and fitted with a dozen handles either side rested on the ground, awaiting violent action.

"A hundred treacherous curs skulk in that manor," he called. "They tried to kill the King. They say he's Black Will, the Bastard of Penmere." Jeers met his words, as he had hoped. "Let's wet our blades, and send our foes straight to Hell!"

He slammed down his visor and charged for the manor. Alongside him ran men from Penmere and Longcove, shouting the King's name. The mercenaries uttered a discordant cacophony of war cries. When he was fifty yards from the manor a dozen archers appeared at the windows and loosed a hail of arrows.

"Keep charging!" he roared.

Arrows whistled through the air and were met with cries of pain, but Hugh had no time to stop for the wounded. He ran to the manor and pressed himself against the wall, too close to it for the archers to loose at him. His own archers were still in place and shooting at the enemy, but half the men tasked with battering the door down lay dead, and those who remained were struggling with the ram's weight.

"Clever bastard," he muttered, sheathing his sword.

The thrilling fear of battle surged through his body, and he ran to help the men carrying the ram. Several others, including Natalya, joined him, but most stayed close to the walls. Grateful nods met his arrival at the ram, and he grunted with his share of the weight.

It was as well he had run to help. At the highest windows more men appeared, bearing cauldrons and iron pots. They tipped the steaming contents onto the soldiers beneath, who screamed as their skin bubbled and burnt under the boiling water. The aroma of roast flesh filled Hugh's nostrils as he strained to carry the ram. Men wearing steel helmets or mail coifs cried out and struggled to fling away their scalding armour. The horrific shrieks drove Hugh and the other ram-bearers on. Rage swelled in his chest for the chance to avenge the burning men.

On his call they swung the ram, and battered the thick wooden doors with its iron-capped point. On the third effort the doors broke from their hinges and fell in. The instant the doors tumbled open Hugh and every other man bearing the ram let go of their burden and it thudded onto the ground.

Hugh ripped his sword free of its scabbard and ran into the manor, followed by his own men and hulking Kuhrisch mercenaries. Fellbridge's men were waiting. Arrows greeted them, and he heard screams muffled by his helmet. One arrow came his way but was deflected by the curved metal of his armour. Most of the archers fled the charge, but a few remained, trying to loose one last arrow. An archer nocked his arrow and pulled back the string but before he could let it fly Hugh was upon him. The knight swept his blade down and severed the man's right arm. Half a scream escaped the archer's lips before Hugh's sword chopped through his neck and sent the head rolling along the floor.

Blood made the floor slick and filled his nostrils with the dreadful exhilaration of battle. Two more archers had been killed, and one of his men was frantically stabbing a corpse over and over again. He approached the man-at-arms and shouted for him to stop, and when that failed he cuffed the blood-crazed soldier around the ear.

"They killed my brother," the man, a Dennish mercenary, spat.

"Then let's go kill more of them," Hugh answered.

That summoned a dark smile to the man's face, and he nodded.

Hugh ordered a dozen soldiers to hold the doorway and prevent the enemy fleeing, then led the fight into the manor. He kicked open the door to the kitchens. A meat cleaver swung at him and he leapt to avoid it. His foe tried to cut his head off, but Hugh stepped to the side and stabbed the man in the stomach. A vicious twist of the sword dragged a final gasp from the Fellbridge soldier, his cleaver clattering on the stone floor. Hugh braced his foot on the corpse's chest and withdrew his blade, slick with blood.

Outside the kitchen he found a barred door being set upon by Natalya and her Kuhrisch mercenaries. The axes were smashing it to matchwood, and he left the bloodthirsty barbarians to their work. Hugh headed for the upper floors, where he hoped to find Mark Fellbridge and exact retribution.

Accompanied by scores of men hungry for revenge, he marched through the manor until he discovered a staircase. A last stand of men-at-arms from Fellbridge waited at the top. Hugh raised his bloody sword and roared as he charged the enemy, a chorus of war cries ringing in his ears. The enemy ran to meet him, and the two sides clashed halfway down the stairs. He battered aside his first adversary's blade and rammed his sword into the man's lower jaw and out through the crown of his head. The light died in his enemy's eyes, and exultation burnt in his heart. Hugh grabbed the corpse's hair but before he could withdraw his blade a second foe lunged at him. He abandoned his sword and sidestepped, before burying his gauntlet in the foe's stomach. Hugh wrested the sword from the adversary's grasp and opened his throat.

There was no-one else to fight. Disappointment and relief filled him. He tossed aside the stolen sword and retrieved his own weapon. Every stair was red, and it was hard to find a place to stand without treading upon corpses.

"Glad to see you alive, Sir Hugh," Quick Nick Highford, visor lifted, greeted him. His gauntlets were redder than a butcher's apron.

Hugh raised his sword in salute. "Good of you to join us."

"Alas that Mark Fellbridge shall not be. The rat deserted the manor during the night."

The enemy fought bravely, and struggled to the last, but they knew their doom. Some tried to surrender, but there was little kindness left in the hearts of men who had seen the faces of their friends melted with boiling water. Raised hands yielded open throats.

Room by bloody room the manor was cleared. Brave as the defenders were, they succumbed to the valour and numbers Sir Hugh commanded. Few of the enemy wore armour to match his, and he slew soldier after soldier, the point of his sword tearing through mail links with ease. The ragtag mercenaries were viciously effective, driven on by the hope of plunder.

Silas Harcester had suffered some casualties claiming the church, but no more than Hugh had feared. He did wonder whether the obstinate noble might raise the flag of Harcester rather than Penmere, and was mildly surprised to see the black banner and white dragon of the royal house flying from the spire.

Battle over, Hugh removed his helmet and left Quick Nick and Natalya to divvy up the loot. He had no doubt they would claim more than their fair share, but that would keep the mercenaries happy and perhaps make Quick Nick a little less resistant to the idea of taking orders from a mere knight.

The wounded screamed no more. Many a whimper escaped trembling lips as their friends tried to ease their pain. Hugh looked at the twisted red flesh and shuddered. A magister could have healed every one of them before the sun set. Instead, the few apothecaries the army possessed wandered from one man to another, pouring honey onto the raw wounds and giving the injured a foul-smelling brew to dull their senses and ease their pain.

"My lord," a herald called him. The man was on horseback, but dismounted and led his steed towards the knight.

"What word do you bring?"

"Glad tidings, my lord. Pel's Hearth has fallen to the good men of Penmere," the man told him. "And I see you have won a great victory reclaiming Old Sutton. Congratulations, my lord."

Hugh watched a man flinch and wail as golden honey was poured onto his ragged red flesh. "Aye. A glorious day indeed."
The Dragon Wakes

It had been a long time, but William was almost shaking with trepidation when the day finally arrived. Esden's cathedral was packed to the rafters with the noble, the wealthy and the clergy. Only Alfred, Sophie's frail father, was absent. Outside, hordes of lesser folk had gathered to cheer William as he arrived, and to watch for Sophie's procession. He paced impatiently while a thousand people chattered, waiting for the wedding to begin.

"Your Grace, you may wear a hole in the carpet," the archdeacon warned. "Do not be worried, all brides take longer to arrive than we hope."

William stopped pacing, and tapped his foot. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, and he could have sworn the multi-coloured shadows had shifted since his arrival. The red wedding doublet he wore was studded with emeralds and his ceremonial sword was chased with silver. Atop his head he wore the Crown of Heaven, claimed by the Church to be a relic of the ancient world that was crafted for Pelasgus himself. From its golden circlet arose three dragon heads that gripped a ruby the size of a hen's egg. The bloody thing weighed more than a battle helmet and was so tight it was giving him a headache.

The crier standing by the cathedral's open doors suddenly bellowed that Lady Sophie Hurstwood was present. The musicians outside began playing their flutes and violins, and the congregation rose to their feet. William kept his eyes firmly fixed forward, remembering vividly the ill fortune that attended those who ignored tradition and turned to look at their bride. It seemed as though she would never arrive, but then the music faded away and he saw her standing beside him. She was only an inch or two shorter than him, and covered from her neck to the floor in white silk. A veil hid her face.

"Nobles of Denland, we are gathered today to witness the joyous union of William, Duke of Penmere, King of All Denland, and Sophie, daughter of Alfred, Earl of Hurstwood," the archdeacon began.

William glanced across and was frustrated by the thickness of the veil. It had been a few years since he had last met Sophie, and he had only a faint memory of her face. In that time she could have been scarred by pestilence or grown from a pretty girl into a beautiful woman. The Crown of Heaven was digging into his skull and he fought to keep a grimace from his face. It remained to be seen whether kissing his wife or ridding himself of the golden torture gripping his skull would be the more satisfying.

At last, the prattling prelate concluded the overlong marriage sermon, and posed the question. Sophie paused a moment, and he glanced at her. Beneath the veil she smiled, and confirmed she would marry him.

"And do you, William, Duke of Penmere, King of All Denland, pledge to marry Sophie Hurstwood, to be her faithful husband until the end of your days?"

"I do."

"Then you may kiss the bride."

With haste bordering on indecency, he leaned forward and lifted her veil. A stench hit him and he gazed in horror at the rotting vision in white. Worms spilled from vacant eye sockets and her flesh was a putrid threadbare skein. Her festering fingers wrapped around his neck with implacable strength and she kissed him.

***

There was always pain.

Sometimes when dreams abandoned William it was day, and sometimes night. One day he could smell the salty sea breeze, or have the vague notion there were other people in the room with him. Often he was alone, or seemed to be, or drifted back into the ceaseless nightmares before he could see anyone. But the only constant was pain. Whether sleeping or wakeful, lucid or uncertain, the agony of a hundred wounds was with him.

Questions stirred in William's sleep-addled head. Why had the magistri not healed him? Where was he?

His eyes were not working properly. He could tell night from day and see movement plain enough, but everything was blurred. When he saw people near him he could not tell if they were man or woman, old or young. All he knew was that their white skin marked them as Dennish, and their black hair meant they could not be his sister.

They spoke to him, and sometimes he could understand. Swelling around his throat prevented him from answering and frustration burnt within him. A damp cloth cooled his brow and woollen bandages were changed on his limbs. He flinched and grunted with pain when a poultice was applied to an open wound on his leg. Between the dreams of death and treachery he snatched only the briefest glimmers of what happened in his waking hours.

One of them held William's mouth open, and another poured something down his gullet. For a panic-stricken instant he feared it was poison, that he was in Trewithiel, and he tried to struggle. It was like a kitten fighting with its mother. Whoever was there claimed she was a friend. The stranger forced William's mouth open, despite his feeble resistance.

***

William opened his eyes. It was daytime, and four people were in the room with him. His vision was a little sharper, though still not quite right. When one of them drew near he could see she was a woman, with hair as black as night. Her face was unfamiliar to him, but she met his gaze with her own and smiled. In her hand she had a wooden bowl, and he smelled the fish before his eyes could make it out.

"Good morning, Your Grace," the woman said. "I've brought something for you to eat."

William tried to reply, but the words would not come out.

She scooped a little fish onto the spoon and held it out. Humiliation ate away at him as he opened his mouth and let her spoon feed him, as though he were a newborn babe. Even swallowing the small mouthful of fish hurt.

The woman said she was Catherine Killigrew, an apothecary. Despite William's inability to reply she seemed to realise he understood her, and told him a little about herself, as well as his own situation. He was grateful that she answered most of his unspoken questions.

She, and Samuel, an old man who joined them shortly thereafter, were apothecaries. Those unable to afford the costly ministrations of the magistri sought their aid instead. It was Uncle John who had corrupted Maurice Trewithiel and prompted the attempt on William's life. The revelation baffled him. John Esden had taken on power a decade ago and countless opportunities to kill him had come and gone in those ten years. With civil war engulfing the kingdom the mages had withdrawn from any potential involvement in politics, and Karena had hired Catherine and her father to try and restore William to health.

He tried to get to his feet, but the slender apothecary pushed him down with no apparent effort.

"Your sister is doing a fine job of governing the city and prosecuting the war. When you recover she will be more than happy to hand the burden of leadership to you. Until then," Catherine told him, wagging a finger as if he were an errant puppy, "you are my responsibility. And I am not going to let you kill yourself by trying to walk before you can stand."

She talked to him a little more but his concentration waned and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

***

Days came and went, but the memory of each slipped from his grasp. Trying to recall what had happened was as hopeless as trying to recall the nightmares that had troubled him. Over time his eyes and his memory sharpened. Gradually, he began to remember who Catherine was, and became strong enough to feed himself. The diet of white fish and weak ale was bland, but it felt good to escape the need for another to spoon feed him.

Karena visited him, accompanied by her sleek and silent lynx. He scratched Gorhelga behind her ears whilst his sister talked to him. Many others wanted to see him, but until he was stronger she had forbade them from his presence. She spoke little of the ructions that had shaken the kingdom, to his annoyance, although he was delighted and amused to hear that the Order of Lascaris had declared war on his enemies. The forces of Penmere had claimed the town of Old Sutton, defeating the Baron's soldiers and those from Fellbridge. Maurice Trewithiel was penned into his own city.

"Do not worry about Maurice Trewithiel," she said, stroking his cheek. "By the time you are recovered he will have been dealt with."

He longed to speak, but the words did not come, and she left him.

The dark spectres that haunted his nights began to fade, and he slept more easily. The rising sun stirred him from peaceful slumber, and he was already awake when Catherine and Samuel entered his bedchamber. Words formed in his mind, and he was surprised to find them spilling from his lips.

"What happened to Hugh?" he asked.

Father and daughter exchanged a smile, and she answered, "Your Grace, Sir Hugh was injured, but not seriously. He has recovered entirely. Your sister wanted to know the moment you were able to speak again; I must go and fetch her."

"Wait," William said, struggling to make his hoarse voice commanding. She paused, and he went on, "Thank you, both, for your efforts. When I am hale you shall be rewarded. Now, go fetch Karena."

He chatted with Samuel, though the old man seemed nervous and kept stammering. By the time William's sister finally arrived he had learnt that some in the city were claiming he had died and that they ought to swear loyalty to the Duke of Esden.

"Good day, sister," he greeted Karena.

She smiled to hear his voice and sat on the bed. "It's a relief to hear you speak once more. The magistri refusing to help made me fear for your life."

William nodded agreement. "This prolonged recuperation has been a vile torture, but be glad the mages refused to aid me. If they were in this war then Esden would have a great advantage. Tell me, who has sided with us?"

She looked away and sighed. "Fewer than I would like. Waldean and Caer Seren. Esden, Beckworth, Norcott, and Ashbury are against us. The Usurper has your bride as his prisoner, and Hurstwood may very well be forced to Esden's banner."

It had been ten years since the last war, and he tried to recall how many men each city could raise. "We will be heavily outnumbered."

"Try not to worry," Karena said. "When you rise from this sickbed an army will await you."

"A small one. Send word to Caer Seren. Tell the Thane to continue mustering whatever soldiers he can, but to keep them within the White Stag Mountains. We shall march west and join them there, then go south and slice into the soft underbelly of Norshire."

Karena raised a slender eyebrow. "Brother, you are badly injured. Leave strategy to those who are well."

William glared at her. "I am wounded, not stupid. This city is impregnable, and our fleet is strong enough to prevent any assault. Harvesting the bounty of the sea will ensure our people have food enough to thrive. To the south the Vinefort and Whitecastle secure our land, and to the west the White Stag Mountains are hazardous even for a friendly army. Norshire is a land of marshes. Our smaller numbers will matter less there, and our enemy will hesitate."

His sister brushed a lock of dark red hair behind her ear. "Very well."

"And get me some wine, not this cat's piss," he said, looking at the empty ale flagon on his bedside table.

"No," Catherine interrupted the royal siblings. Both looked at her in surprise, and her father put his head in his hands. "You are still recovering and could yet relapse. An apothecary cannot heal in minutes like a magister, so we must insist upon dominion over the behaviour of our patients if they are to have the best chance of survival. Including their drinking habits," she emphasised, looking him in the eye. "You would be safer juggling daggers than drinking strong wine. I forbid it."

Silence followed her words. Karena failed to stop herself smiling. William stared at the apothecary, infuriated by her insolence and impressed by her confidence.

"You do recall I am your liege?" he asked.

Catherine replied, "Yes, Your Grace. Every corner of this land owes you loyalty. But in this chamber and regarding your wounds my word must be sovereign. If you start drinking now it would throw your recovery into doubt, and you might very well be claimed by death after all. And then you would be king of only six feet of earth, instead of Denland."

William considered her words. "No. I am King of All Denland, including this very room. However, I am not deaf to counsel, and your argument has persuaded me. For now I shall suffer weak ale or beer. Sister," he said, turning his attention to Karena, "I want to speak to Hugh and Ambrose. Send them to see me."

Karena left him shortly thereafter, Gorhelga shadowing her mistress. For the first time since his ill-fated visit to Trewithiel, William felt clarity of mind and some strength of spirit. It would be weeks, perhaps months, until he could escape his sickbed. A slow trudge to recovery, but plenty of time to plot his revenge against the House of Esden.
The Flag of Peace

When Karena arrived in the King's council chamber she found a small mountain of correspondence awaiting her. The King had rarely visited the opulent room when he had been hale, and her first order had been to commission half a dozen maids to clean the dusty, cobweb-ridden chamber. Twelve high-backed stone chairs surrounded a long table, upon which golden goblets and flagons of wine stood. Sir Horace, standing behind her chair at the table's head, had taken the liberty of pouring her a goblet of Felarian wine. He pulled out the chair for her.

"How fares the King, my lady?" Sir Horace asked as she took her seat.

"He shall be weak awhile yet. Each day his strength returns a little more."

Gorhelga padded over to her side, and she cut open the first wax seal. Lucien Mercator sought permission to recruit from Penmere's prisoners. She penned a swift approval for the proposition and beckoned one of the many messenger boys waiting outside the chamber to come forward.

"Take this to Lucien Mercator," she told the youth, who plucked the letter from her grasp and scampered off to do her bidding.

Her labour slowly eroded the mountain of letters, and she wondered how much quieter a lord's life would be in peace than wartime. Some of the matters were small affairs, dealt with in mere moments. Others were graver. The Earl of Waldean claimed to be unable to send soldiers because the Aralla, the natives of Cara's Rock, were behaving in an odd and menacing way. The Patriarch of Penmere, the Primate of All Denland, wanted to postpone the coronation that had been planned for William's return after marrying Sophie Hurstwood.

Those two difficult letters she set aside for the time being. She enjoyed exercising royal authority, but sometimes it was wise to let the thoughts of others weigh in the scales. The situation with the Patriarch was especially difficult. The Church was officially neutral in the war. Should he side with John Esden, the Patriarch, being a resident of Penmere, would be immediately executed. If he sided with the King and the Duke of Esden prevailed, he would be executed slightly later. Either refusing or acceding to the coronation could paint him in the colours of Esden or Penmere. Fortunately, the fact he dwelt in her city meant the penalty for disobeying her loomed rather larger than the fear of John Esden's eventual triumph.

When the last simple matter was done she had Sir Horace summon her dinner guests. Dining in the council chambers enabled her to reduce the time spent away from prosecuting the war, as well as making those she invited feel closer to royal power. Once the correspondence was cleared from the table she had the servants lay it with golden cutlery and silver plates. Only three guests would be joining her, but a veritable feast bedecked the table.

Lord Baldwin Mallen was first to arrive. He smiled to see her, and the lines in his face grew a little deeper.

Karena rose from her seat and held out her hand for him to kiss. "Baldwin, it is good to see you," she welcomed him as his lips brushed her hand. She gestured at the seat on her right, the place of honour, and he took it.

"Serpent flesh?" he asked, his fork prodding a cut of meat wider than a man's torso.

She smiled. "Yes. The first of the year, I believe."

The elderly lord began slicing a slab of the exquisite, rare meat, and was still hacking away when Lord Seymour Farrington arrived. He wore gloves and a scarf made from sea otter fur, and a heavy woollen cloak. He discarded the gloves and scarf before kissing Karena's proffered hand and taking a seat on her left.

"Damned cold day. One shudders to think of how bitter winter will be," he muttered, helping himself to a generous portion of beef, mutton and pork.

Karena was about to ask the two men about the situation in Waldean when her third and final guest turned up. Prince Stephen's presence was more a matter of good manners than actually desiring his company, and it gave her the opportunity to make sure he wasn't being led astray by greedy guildsmen or other unscrupulous sorts.

Stephen waved a greeting at her, then sat beside Lord Farrington and selected a small assortment of nuts, fruit and fish for his plate.

With his arrival she raised her goblet and proposed a toast to the King's health. Afterwards, she broached the topic of Cara's Rock.

"Simon Waldean has always been loyal to us," Baldwin observed between mouthfuls of serpent. "I do not believe he would betray us now. Besides, even if he wished to do so, his city is reliant upon our fleet for food. It would be an act of suicide to side with the Duke of Esden."

Seymour sipped his wine. "Perhaps. I am inclined to agree with Lord Mallen. It is possible the Earl of Waldean believes the rumours that the King has died, and that lending us soldiers would lead to his own demise."

Karena considered their words, and turned her gaze upon her cousin. Stephen was noisily chewing some fish, eyes fixed on his silver plate. "What say you, cousin?"

The prince paused in his eating, a fish-laden fork halfway to his open mouth. "M-me?"

"Is anyone else here my cousin?"

He frowned, and started tapping his fingers on the table. "Well, I think I've only met the Earl once or twice, and it was a long time ago. The Aralla are rather odd. Every thousand turns of the moon they have a procession around Cara's Rock. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's religious, or to vaunt their prowess in battle, but it usually lasts about ten days. After that they return to normal. The Earl is probably perturbed by their behaviour, and might be reluctant to leave the island until it stops."

Karena handed her lynx a pork chop, which vanished into the cat's greedy mouth. "And in what cavernous library did you mine such an interesting little nugget of history?"

Stephen stopped tapping the table and smiled. "It was in the diaries of the first Duke of Penmere. He wrote it in an old dialect of the White tongue, and it took me some time to translate it."

A pity you don't dedicate to swordplay half the time you spend learning long lost tongues.

Karena steepled her fingers. "Good. That still leaves the matter of the coronation."

"Perhaps the ceremony could simply be delayed until after the war is won," Lord Mallen suggested. "That way, the Church can maintain its neutrality. If the issue is pressed and the Patriarch declines to preside over the coronation we would force the Church into the Usurper's allegiance."

Lord Farrington shook his head. "Delicate as the matter is, it simply cannot be left that long. William is the monarch in law, but he only assumes regal dignity and royal authority upon being crowned. And if the King lacks regal authority it would be retained by his regent, the Duke of Esden."

"So, my lady, what will you do about the coronation?" Lord Mallen asked. He drained the final dregs of wine from his goblet and awaited her reply.

Karena smiled. "I shall invite the Patriarch to dine with me tomorrow. I am sure we can reach a mutually acceptable position."

Once the lords and her cousin had departed she let Gorhelga gorge herself on the extortionately expensive serpent flesh. The princess led Sir Horace onto the balcony. They were a common feature in the royal palace, and the crashing of waves on jagged rocks always invigorated her.

"Ensure we have sufficient Hollow Knights to attend me tomorrow," she commanded Horace. "Make it plain my duty pertains to the coronation, and they will obey in the King's name."

The knight nodded acknowledgement. "Yes, my lady. Will you require anything else?"

An especially violent wave crashed into the rocks below, sending a plume of salty spray almost over the balcony. "Have a scaffold erected in the square. We shall hang a traitor or two before dinner. And perhaps afterwards as well."

***

When the distant lights of Trewithiel pierced the night's veil Hugh stopped the march and summoned a cadre of messenger boys.

"Tell every noble, every knight and every captain to light the torches," he commanded.

Natalya waited until the boys had scurried off to speak. "You do realise lighting several hundred torches will alert the city to our presence?"

Hugh looked up at her. It was so cold he could feel the goosebumps rising, but she seemed untroubled by the night's chill, despite wearing a sleeveless jerkin. "Obviously. I want the people to know they're surrounded. With luck, they'll come to their senses, and surrender Maurice and Jasper to us," Hugh explained.

He glanced behind and was glad to see the marching column had kindled into a coiling serpent of fire, the sort of monster against which men sought Cerca's aid. "I'd prefer not to massacre my countrymen."

Natalya spat. "You showed few such qualms at Old Sutton. And you've forgotten something."

Hugh tapped the tin willow tree dangling from his belt. "What?"

"If the Baron's got more men than you think, they know exactly where we are. How good are you at dodging arrows in the dark?" the Kuhrisch asked.

"Have a little faith," he told her.

"I have faith. In the gods, not you stunted heathens."

Hugh rolled his eyes. He took a swig from his wineskin, glad of its biting warmth, and offered it to her.

The Kuhrisch drained the skin dry and tossed it back.

"Aren't you even a little cold?" he asked her.

Natalya laughed. "Your land makes you soft." An arrow, head wreathed in flames, landed fifty yards away. "And your heresy makes you foolish," she added, readying her axe.

Hugh wrested his sword from its scabbard, but before he could bark commands a voice hailed him from the darkness.

"Ho, there! Are you loyal to good King William, or the Usurper?" a man with a pronounced Felarian accent called.

Hugh gestured for Natalya to lower her axe, and sheathed his sword. "Lucien, it's Hugh. Strike torches, and join the column."

A single flame burst into life in front of him. And then a second. Soon there were sixty torches; men mounted and afoot came forward to join Hugh's army. The sight of Lucien Mercator put a smile on his face.

"I just reclaimed the bridge over the Dorlas," the Felarian explained as he approached, the hem of his woollen cloak almost brushing the road. "And then I saw hundreds of men on the road. I was beginning to worry the Earl of Ashbury had already sent half his army over the river."

Hugh smiled with relief. "Great to hear that Pel's Hearth is back in our hands."

Lucien winked. "Not just Pel's Hearth. I swam the river upstream, and took the fort on the Ashcombe side unawares. Pel's Hearth was surrounded and surrendered before the sun rose."

"Clever," Natalya commented.

"I thought you brutes preferred a direct approach to subtle plans," Lucien replied. "I'm Lucien Mercator, captain of the guard in Penmere. And you are?"

"Natalya. Only an idiot announces his presence to the enemy. Better to bury your axe in his head before he even sees you." She turned her head Hugh's way. "Are we going to resume marching or stand here like gossiping fishwives?"

Hugh sighed, but she had a point and he ordered the column to continue on its way. It was odd seeing Lucien side-by-side with the pale Kuhrisch. She towered a foot and a half over him, her ivory skin contrasting with Lucien's tanned leather hue.

"Gods, but it's cold," Lucien complained, gathering the cloak about him.

A sonorous chanting stirred in the night. Memories of hymns in ancient churches brought a smile to Hugh's lips. Behind him, he heard soldiers wondering what it was.

"The Knights Lascarian sing holy songs on the way to war," he explained. "They did it when they slew the dragons infesting Denland centuries past, and they do it now when avenging themselves on Trewithiel."

The men behind were quietened, but the Kuhrisch at his side was not.

"You heathens. What use is a song to a god?" she asked.

The Lascarian chorus haunted the march until Hugh called the column to a halt. The lantern outside the nearest gate of the city was barely half a mile distant.

"Lucien, organise our camp here. Messengers," he beckoned two boys forward. "Tell Silas Harcester and Nicholas Highford to circle around the city and besiege the other gates."

Hugh stared at the city. The gates were shut, and after a few moments the sentries extinguished the lantern that welcomed visitors to Trewithiel. Braziers illuminated the battlements, and every so often a patrolling soldier was silhouetted as he walked in front of the flames.

"Are you not sleeping tonight?" he asked Natalya, who hadn't moved from his side.

She had planted her axe's long handle in the earth, and was resting her hands and chin on the blunt part of its head. "I'll lie down when I'm ready. If I were commanding that city, I'd open one of the gates and attack."

Hugh dragged his eyes from Trewithiel. "I think you and Maurice have little in common."

Natalya smiled. "Aye. If I'd meant to kill a seventeen year old boy, I would've succeeded."

A cacophony of pealing bells interrupted their conversation.

Natalya spat. "Begging your false gods for help already."

Hugh scratched his bushy beard. "They're sounding the alarm. The whole city will be awake soon, and they won't sleep well."

As it happened, he didn't sleep well either. Half the night he prayed to the gods or read, and when slumber still refused his company he got up and spent the last hours of darkness with the men.

When the sun rose he left Lucien in command, and approached the walls alone to parley. He waved the white flag, and advanced in slow steps. Between the merlons a dozen, and then a score, of soldiers watched him. Hugh cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "I am Sir Hugh Glencarn, and I wish to parley."

The defenders exchanged glances, and a few departed. Moments later a new man appeared atop the wall.

"I am Clifford Stanton, captain of the City Watch. Speak plainly, Sir Hugh."

"I come to speak to the master, not the servant. It is Maurice Trewithiel who has committed treason, and Maurice Trewithiel I am commanded to take," Hugh bellowed at the top of his lungs, intent that every man on the wall should hear his words. "I am tasked with his capture, dead or alive. Whether the city itself falls is not my concern. Go fetch the traitor, and be quick about it."

Captain Stanton disappeared, and Hugh leaned against one of the towers flanking the gate to minimise the number of sentries who might try to shoot him. He watched the four or five within bowshot, who met his gaze but raised no weapons.

Hugh yawned, and cast a glance back at the camp. Saws were cutting their way through several tree trunks, ready to construct the first ram. He looked at the defenders, and saw they had followed his gaze, their eyes fixed on the siege engine pieces.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he called up.

Grunts and nods were the only response.

At long last, Maurice Trewithiel made an appearance. A mop of curly hair crowned his head, and his body had been swollen by gluttony.

"Brave of you to return, Hugh. What do you want?"

"Your surrender. Bloodshed has stained the Mere for too long. William Penmere demands your life, and that of your son, but is willing to forgive those who foolishly fought under your banner," Hugh shouted in reply.

Maurice laughed. "My granaries are full and my walls are strong. How long before more men cross the Dorlas?"

Hugh smiled. "And yet, it is your city that is besieged. You forsook the responsibility of fealty to King William. Do not forsake your responsibility as lord of this city."

Maurice spat over the wall. "Run home, knight. It may take weeks or months, but the avalanche of steel cannot be stopped. King John will sweep away all those fool enough to follow the Bastard of Penmere."

"Are you willing to sacrifice the life of every man, woman and child to protect yourself?" Hugh challenged him. "You are my quarry, traitor. You and your son. Beyond you two I have no wish to harm Trewithiel or anyone within it."

Maurice turned away, and left the wall.

Hugh raised his white flag and held it aloft as he walked towards camp a good deal faster than he had left it. A scream followed by a thud halted his gait. He turned about. Somebody had thrown Maurice Trewithiel over the battlements.

"Sir Hugh," Captain Stanton called. "You have Maurice. If we deliver Jasper, do you promise upon your honour that no more blood will be shed?"

"I do," Hugh shouted back. "Have the boy ready this afternoon. I shall enter the city with a small force to name Maurice's successor."

Captain Stanton nodded.

Hugh stuffed the white flag into his belt and strolled to the corpse. He prodded the body with his toe, which elicited a pain-wracked groan. The knight drew his blade, rolled over Maurice with his foot, and placed the sword at the fallen noble's throat.

"You can have a single kiss of steel now, or enjoy Princess Karena nibbling on your carcass for months."

Maurice spat on the sword. "Do it, if you have the courage."

Hugh stared into Maurice's eyes, and slid the sword into his neck. Blood spurted several feet into the air, and the noble's soul fled. Hugh wiped his sword clean on his white flag, and walked back to camp.

***

An hour later he beheld the gate of Trewithiel, Natalya at his side.

"Do you think they'll give up their lord?" the Kuhrisch asked Hugh.

"I hope so. I did not come here to sack a Dennish city."

She planted her two-handed axe in the ground and stared at Trewithiel. "I did."

Hugh laughed. "Bad luck. Would the Kuhrisch give up Jasper?"

Natalya looked down at him and snorted. "Would we hide behind walls like chickens in a coop? Would we muddy our trousers kneeling to some curly-haired cur?" She spat, picked up her axe and pointed the hefty weapon at Trewithiel's castle. "If I were in there I'd kill Jasper, open the gates, let our leaders inside and massacre them."

Hugh raised an eyebrow. "How does trickery tally with Kuhrisch honour?"

"If you wander into a city trusting to the faith of men who were trying to kill you three days ago then it's your stupidity and not their wickedness to blame if you end up dead."

One of the Hollow Knights approached. "A delegation from the city wishes to speak with you, Sir Hugh." His lilting Arthenigan accent identified him as Sir Emyr. "They have elected to submit. Jasper is bound for justice in Penmere."

Natalya stared at the Hollow Knight's polished armour, and spat on the ground.

"Didn't take long," Hugh remarked. "Tell them I shall meet them as soon as Silas and Nicholas join me."

The Hollow Knight bowed and went to do his bidding.

"That's a walking abomination," Natalya growled. "Gods know why you people act the way you do. Tearing a man's soul from his body is the act of a demon, not a man. Your perfumed priests are little more than profane charlatans. Keep the bloody husks away from me."

Quick Nick and Silas seemed in good spirits. Perhaps they were simply glad that by the day's end they might not have to take orders from a knight anymore.

Even with the losses Trewithiel had suffered in the fall of Old Sutton, the city still had enough Watchmen and soldiers to make life very difficult if they chose to betray Hugh once he was within its walls. In addition to the Hollow Knights, he had two hundred men from Penmere and a handful from Longcove and Harcester ready to enter the city. The mercenaries he did not trust, and though he invited Natalya to join him she preferred to spend the evening drinking with her men. He regretted her refusal, but would have probably made the same choice in her position.

Dusk settled across the land, and sunset shot streaks of fire through the sky's few clouds. Hugh sat on his horse and watched the gates to Trewithiel open. From within the city Watchmen manhandled Maurice's son and heir, Jasper. Captain Stanton led the way, his black cloak denoting his status as Captain of the Watch. Following the Watchmen were a pair of soldiers wearing plate armour, but no helmets, and a small group of clergy led by a deacon.

The delegation halted a hundred yards from the gates, and laid down Maurice's body. Hugh clicked his tongue, and his horse trotted towards them. Silas, Quick Nick, Lucien and Gregory rode on his right, and the six Hollow Knights on his left. The rhythmic chorus of boots pounding the ground told him his soldiers were close behind.

He dismounted and wandered forward to meet Captain Clifford Stanton, who saluted.

"Sir Hugh Glencarn, you have my thanks. The Watch, soldiery, knights and clergy of Trewithiel have accepted the terms for peace that you have presented to us," Captain Stanton said. "Please know that most of us were unaware of Maurice's treachery until he had attempted regicide, at which point it seemed impossible to plead for clemency, and those who argued with the Baron were summarily executed." Captain Stanton looked at the tall, lanky figure of Jasper. "Maurice lies dead, and we hand his heir, Jasper, to the authority of Penmere." Captain Stanton cleared his throat. "I must tell you, sir, that we greatly appreciate this unexpected opportunity to spare the city the ravages of a siege and be rid of the traitor who held sway over us. Jasper, on the other hand, obeyed his father as a son should, yet argued ever for the path of peace and fealty to Penmere."

Hugh nodded. "I shall pass your words along to Princess Karena, captain."

Jasper left the Watchman and walked to Hugh's side. "What are you going to do with me?" the youth asked.

"That's a question for Princess Karena. I'll pass along Captain Stanton's kind words about you, but you would be advised to make your peace with the Divine, lest his plea does not persuade her."

The deacon and captain of the guard introduced themselves, and the cleric attempted to ingratiate himself with the gift of a cask of wine. Hugh handed the wine over to Lucien, and had Quick Nick escort Jasper back to the army.

It was a strange procession through Trewithiel. Few people watched them on the streets, though plenty peered fearfully from windows, peeping through the narrow slits of shutters as hundreds of armed men marched through the heart of Trewithiel. Hugh did not blame them. Their lord had come within a whisker of killing the King, and the King's sister held the city's fate in her hands.

The alleyways were occupied by armed men, wearing the uniform of the Watch or of Trewithiel's guard. Hugh did not break step upon seeing them, but readied himself for any attack. The breeze whistled through the perforated tin lanterns dangling from countless eaves like illuminated wind chimes.

As night fell he reached the castle. He led the Hollow Knights and several other men through the castle gates, eyes watching the shadows for betrayal.

"Gregory, take some men and guard the treasury until I've dealt with the succession," Hugh commanded.

Princess Karena had demanded the city's treasury be emptied for Penmere's benefit, and that a suitable man be found to govern Trewithiel in Maurice's stead. Claiming whatever wealth was left would not prove difficult, but he was less confident of finding a sound man to proclaim Baron of Trewithiel. Noble bloodlines were sacred, so it would almost certainly have to be kin of Maurice, yet his family were likely tainted by treason at least in part. Whoever was granted the baronial seat might yet side with Esden.

Gregory did as he was bid, and Hugh climbed a spiral staircase to find the Baron's family, who had been assembled on the second floor of the keep.

"Any suggestions as to who might be best?" he asked Silas.

"The most able man would be Jonathan, the Baron's nephew," Silas replied. "The man's a snake, though. If you want a safer, but less competent, man I would recommend Daniel, Maurice's cousin."

Hugh nodded. It would not do to have Trewithiel rebel after being brought back into the royal fold, and if Daniel needed a helpful adviser from Penmere to guide him that was a small price to pay for loyalty.

All of Maurice's family had been gathered in the confines of a private chapel. It was about the size of a parish church, and every pew was occupied. At Hugh's arrival, all rose and turned to face him, faces white with fear. As one, the Hollow Knights unsheathed their swords.

"Sheathe your blades," Hugh told them.

They did not. Five crossed the chapel's threshold, and the sixth turned, blade still bared, to prevent Hugh or Silas from interfering. The nobility stared aghast at the advancing knights and their naked swords. Women shrieked and children hid behind their parents' legs. Several ran to the altar and clung to it for protection, but the Divine did not hear their prayers. The Hollow Knights butchered the unarmed nobility, hacking at limbs and severing heads. Blood sprayed and children screamed.

"Stop this madness!" Hugh roared at them.

"It is the royal command," Sir Emyr informed him. The Hollow Knight buried his broadsword in a woman's stomach, and ripped an agonised whimper from her as he pulled the blade free.

Hugh placed a hand on his own sword.

"Sir Hugh, no," Silas said. "That way lies death."

Hugh watched the massacre continue. "This is wrong. It desecrates the chapel and stains our honour with the blood of children. "

"Not the King's honour," Silas murmured. "Who do you suppose gave the Hollow Knights this command? The King, or his sweet, delicate sister? If you try and interfere they will cut you down, and there is precious little honour in the grave."

Hugh took his hand from his blade.

Not everyone was killed. An elderly man, his wife, and three younger men remained. The family huddled together, blood soaking their clothes and terror trembling their bodies.

"Daniel, you shall be Baron of Trewithiel," Sir Emyr told the greybeard. "Look on this," he said, waving a bloodstained gauntlet at the defiled chapel, "and remember what happened here, when treachery tempts you." The Hollow Knight crouched beside the terrified man. "I shall leave five of my fellows here. And if you ever forget, they shall remind you."

***

It was a welcome change to be able to deliver some pleasant news to William. He remained in poor health and slept most of the day, but was eating rather more and increasingly lucid. The death of Maurice had conjured a satisfied smile to the King's face, and it heartened him to learn the city had been brought to heel.

Before Patriarch Jeremiah was due, Karena summoned Catherine to the council chamber. The apothecary eyed Gorhelga nervously.

"How much longer until the King is able to fight?" Karena asked, stroking her lynx's head.

"It cannot be predicted, my lady. Many would have perished, and some will take longer to recover than others. The King is young and strong, which will aid his recovery."

Karena sipped a little wine. "His coronation is in twenty days."

The apothecary frowned, and her fingers unthinkingly tapped the willow tree that hung at her side. "Whilst possible, I would advise delaying. Rushing a recovery is as bad as pouring poison into old wounds. He is not yet strong and could easily decline into malady and die if he exerts himself beyond his endurance."

Karena rose from her seat and caressed the apothecary's face. "You are so very pretty, my dear. Should the King be well enough for his coronation then I would delight in decorating you with gold and furs. Your father is an old man, is he not? Serving your kingdom will not be unrewarded, and restoring the King to health will prove the foundation of golden prosperity for your father."

After Catherine left, Karena had some Hollow Knights attend the patriarchal encounter. Sir Horace placed upon the table a little sack with contents so small and light she looked inside to ensure it was not empty.

A Hollow Knight strode into the chamber to announce the Patriarch's arrival. Jeremiah, Primate of All Denland, Archdeacon of Penmere, Father of the Faithful, Servant of the Divine, walked in. Though steady on his feet he walked with the ceremonial oak staff of Julius, the first patriarch. An unadorned mitre sat atop his head, and he was garbed in modest robes of cream and purple. The Patriarch was a man slight of both body and mind, well-equipped for benevolence and kindness, moderation and forgiveness. Walking the narrow line between opposing sides in a war was quite another matter.

Karena dropped to one knee and quickly placed her lips upon his proffered hand. She rose at once and gestured at a seat beside her own.

"Father, I have been hoping to speak to you, but recent events have preyed upon my time," Karena said. "Faithless traitors and rumour-mongers have been whispering vile falsehoods about the Church, and about your own person. Naturally, those who have been caught have been suitably chastised with the lash."

The Patriarch sighed, and stroked his brown beard. "Tell me, child, what words have these malcontents been uttering? However horrid they may be, we should extend the hand of mercy, if possible."

Karena shook her head. "There can be no clemency to those who slander the kingdom's greatest cleric with the charge of treason. Even the lash is too soft, and I have been accused of feminine weakness for refusing to simply burn them alive. These nefarious criminals have been spreading the lie throughout Penmere that you intend to refuse to carry out your promise to crown the King."

Jeremiah did not reply, and she stared at the Patriarch, letting the slow grade of silence extort an unwilling answer from his lips.

"I have made no such declaration, my lady."

She smiled at the diplomatic response. "I knew it could not be so. How could the Divines' chief servant speak false? I simply wished to have your own words confirm the truth, so that I might reassure my brother, who grows stronger with each passing day, that his first duty upon rising from his sickbed will not be to execute the city's holiest cleric."

The Patriarch scratched at his throat. "Of course, the King's coronation must proceed. The civil war does complicate matters. The Church is neutral. We cannot side with Penmere or Esden, for we serve all the faithful of the Divine. If I were to crown the King it might be seen as allying the Church with the House of Penmere. A civil investiture would grant the necessary legal and moral authority, without imposing political implications upon the Church."

Gorhelga growled, and the Patriarch jumped. The Fenshire lynx had prowled, unseen and unheard, to the cleric's side.

"And if you do not crown William," Karena said, her words demanding the unsettled cleric's attention, "it will be seen as a withdrawal of support, a breach of faith, and allegiance to the House of Esden. Sir Ambrose," she said, turning to face the Hollow Knight, "what happened to the last patriarch who betrayed his monarch?"

"He was hanged, my lady," the Hollow Knight replied.

"My lady," the Patriarch said, "I have spoken no word against the House of Penmere, and have prayed for your brother's health. The Duke of Esden has written to me, beseeching me to excommunicate you and your brother, yet I have refused. I beg you, do not drag the Church into the civil bloodshed that threatens to engulf our fair kingdom."

Karena grasped the small sack on the table and turned it upside down. Hundreds of little things, less than an inch long and very thin, tumbled out of the sack. Each one was stained red.

"In times of strife traitors lurk in every shadow, it would seem. The poor Watchmen have been tireless, working night and day to extract the painful truth from our enemies." She picked up one of the bloody fingernails and smiled. "Are you my enemy, Jeremiah?"

"No, but I–"

"So tomorrow you will speak from the pulpit confirming you will crown my brother on the promised day?"

The Patriarch got out of his chair and knelt before her, hands clasped in supplication. "My lady, please consider my position. If I do as you ask it may be taken as siding with you in the war. Many priests throughout the land may be forced to swear loyalty for one side or another, and the eventual victors will be tempted to slay clergy who did not support them in the struggle."

Karena leant down and rested her hand against his cheek. "Dear Jeremiah, you may be right. But perhaps I can prevail upon the King to be merciful in his victory, if you do not provoke his wrath needlessly. I fear if you so publicly reject the rightful monarch and trample upon your own promise, just as a treacherous soldier turns his coat, my brother will have no choice but to demand the purging of his enemies from the Julian Palace." She kissed him on the cheek, and whispered so that the watching knights could not hear, "Even if you have such scant regard for your own life, consider the countless clerics whose little lives dangle by a thread you seem so tempted to cut. If you understand and obey, kiss my hand to show your loyalty."

Karena leaned back and held out her hand.

The Patriarch gazed at it, his eyes lingering for a long moment. He kissed her hand and left without saying another word.
The Serpent's Kiss

William gritted his teeth and took another faltering step forward. His apothecaries had urged him to remain abed, but delaying the coronation was unthinkable. His claim to the kingdom would wither and die if he could not even walk the length of a church.

He stumbled, and managed to catch the bedstead to stop himself from crashing to the ground. At least his sister had already paid her daily visit. It would not do for Karena to discover him sprawled on the floor like a tottering lamb.

Bracing himself against the bed, William shifted the weight to his legs and took another unsteady step. Fire burned in his muscles, but no less did it inflame his heart. Every pace was a step closer to revenge against his bastard uncle.

William turned around at the chest of drawers, clumsily hitting the furniture and upsetting the small pile of books Stephen had left him. His great-grandfather had won a civil war against the House of Esden, and reading accounts of that conflict not only kept his mind occupied but would help with his own efforts.

William gritted his teeth and forced one more step, despite the pain. If the lowliest peasant could survive without the magistri, then so could he. The experience of watching bruises fade and bloody wounds turn to scabs and scars was a strange one. Since birth the magistri had been on hand to mend bones and heal cuts. As a boy he had broken his back, and the only lasting pain from the fall had been his father's displeasure.

An unexpected guest called upon him just as he collapsed onto his bed after the arduous labour of walking several feet unaided. Slim and pale, her hair was hidden beneath a wimple and she wore a modest sleeved gown of green and white brocade. The Hollow Knight that had entered beside her announced she was Lady Jane Falchester, daughter of the Earl of Falchester. The sentry returned to guard the door like a steel statue, leaving William and his guest alone.

"Your Grace, it gladdens my heart to see you looking so well." Jane glided to his side and knelt, grey eyes staring up at him. "I came to Penmere on a pilgrimage, and found myself praying for your recovery."

William smiled. "I am sure we are both happy the Divine considered your pleas persuasive. I must admit to being a little surprised to see you again, Jane. It's been... five years?"

"Six. Bertrand Fenwick's wedding was a fortnight after my thirteenth birthday. I recall the Regent was furious with you for fighting with his son."

William smiled. "Stuart Esden always was a bastard, even when he was a boy. But you did not visit to reminisce about a past battle with the House of Esden. If it is safe passage you seek, I shall provide it, so far as I am able. I would offer a ship, but the waters west of Aberwyn may be dangerous."

Jane rose to her feet and wandered over to the small, high window of his bedchamber. She gazed outside at the city, and then replied, "I come not to seek aid, but to offer it. My father has yet to decide which House to support. His natural loyalty makes him prefer you, but he has Felaria to the west, the Steinland north, and Esden to the south. Neutrality is the best he can do, for now."

William suppressed a smile at the description of Michael Falchester as a man of natural loyalty. "Whilst I would prefer his soldiers fighting for me, at least they will not be siding with the traitor. Does your faithful father have anything else to offer?"

"Two things." She turned from the window and sat beside him on the bed. "Some of those fighting for Esden are true followers of the Duke. But many find themselves faced with the choice of treachery or death, and hope for an opportunity to strike a blow against him. My father has given me a list of men and women who might be willing to listen to you, and to act on your behalf."

"And the second thing?"

Jane placed her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Sophie Hurstwood is a captive of Esden. You will need a new bride, and thousands of veteran soldiers would make a fine dowry, would they not?"

***

Jane was a frequent visitor, and proved quite talented at reinvigorating him. The disapproval of both Catherine and Karena served only to deepen William's delight with his noble paramour. Ignoring his apothecary's plea to rest, he forced himself to walk as much as he could. Sir Ambrose brought him his sword, and though his muscles ached with the effort he managed to complete a short series of exercises with the blade.

"Are you out of your wits?" Karena asked.

William slumped on his bed, skin covered in sweat. "Every day I get stronger. Soon we can begin to fight in earnest. Has Waldean sent the men yet?"

"Yes, and do not try and divert our conversation. That was not the particular episode of stupidity I was referring to, although Catherine warns that excessive exertion could reverse your recovery. I was referring to your invitation to the Falshire whore. The coronation is no place to parade your mistress."

"The House of Falchester has taken neither side. We can foster warm relations, or snub them. Jane is the daughter of an earl, not a tavern wench. If I don't invite her I spite a potential ally."

Karena paced the room. Gorhelga watched her mistress with interest, sat motionless in the corner like a furry gargoyle.

"Word of your little affair has already spread through the city like wildfire. Are you dense? Hurstwood's daughter, your betrothed, is held captive by our enemies and you insult him by openly conducting an affair with another woman!"

William drank from the flagon of weak ale that rested on his bedside table. "I was unaware it was quite such common knowledge."

"Half the palace have heard her moaning and groaning like a sailor's strumpet! If you want to bed her in secret you should have gagged her."

"An intriguing suggestion. Perhaps I should have some manacles brought here as well."

"Perhaps I should find a noose for her to play with." Karena sat on the bed and waved Gorhelga over. The lynx rested her head on her mistress' lap, and purred when her chin was scratched. "Are you sure you will be well enough to attend Jasper's execution? It will be good for the people to see you, but if you are still too weak–"

"I am not," he interrupted. "Sitting on a horse long enough to watch Maurice's son hang will not tax me overmuch. Besides, Catherine believes that the fresh sea air will help to balance my humours."

***

Church bells rang for a full hour to herald the sun's rise on coronation day. Monks and nuns chanted hymns and prayed for the King's reign to be prosperous and peaceful. The optimistic pleas to the gods prompted a smile from those who heard them. Guilds organised fine meals for their members, celebrating not merely the King's accession but the brief suspension of taxes that accompanied his ascension to the throne. Penmere's pure white marble looked like very heaven, or would have, were it not for the horse dung that decorated the roads like pockmarks on a beggar's face.

William stared down at the preparations for his coronation as he was dressed. He lifted his arms, and Jane lowered his undershirt onto his torso.

"You look fierce as a tiger," she said.

The fabled feline brought a smile to his lips, and he glanced at her twinkling grey eyes. "See that tower?" he asked, pointing at a four-storey structure crowned by a spire.

She put her arms around him and rested her chin on his shoulder. "What is it?"

"It leads to the caverns where the mages and their golems dwell. The stone giants will be marching out of the shadows any moment."

The earth shook, and Jane trembled. Cheers arose from the people below when the heavy footsteps of the first terrible golem made the earth quiver. Hundreds of the crudely crafted stone and wooden men, most twice the height of a Dennishman, rose from the depths.

"Gods, look at them," Jane whispered, her breath tickling his ear.

He turned his head and stole a kiss from her lips. "The crowds will be more astonished by your appearance than theirs, my lady."

Her cheeks flushed red. "Does that one have a name?" she asked, pointing at a beautiful woman of black stone.

"Aventia. And that," he said, nodding at a dragon crafted from the impervious white stone of Penmere, "is the Sun's Daughter. Divine alone know how Aurelian managed to shape the stone to his will."

Roars of approval followed Aventia and the Sun's Daughter as they strode through the city, and he reluctantly prised his eyes away from the marching golems. Jane finished dressing him to the sound of minstrels playing on the streets below.

"One hopes one's valet skills pleased Your Grace," she said, curtseying.

He assessed himself in the mirror. In an hour or two he would be subjected to the coronation regalia, but for now his normal clothing would suffice. "We are not displeased. Call upon us this night to receive one's reward."

She giggled. "I shall endeavour to prove worthy of your favour, Your Grace."

Jane curtseyed a second time, and left his chamber. Peals of laughter from the streets below caught his ear, and he peered outside. The enchanted steel armour of the Hollow Knights gleamed in the autumnal sun, and mischievous maidens were decorating the taciturn knights with bright garlands.

***

Karena strolled into the council chamber and stopped in her tracks. She had intended to attend to more correspondence about the war but her brother was sat in her seat. Or his, she supposed.

"You need not trouble yourself with these trifles," she told him. "Get yourself ready for the coronation."

"There are reports," William said, keeping his eyes on the letter he was reading, "of a grand dragon. A great and mighty beast was seen flying east from Elstoke Castle."

"I read one of those claims the other day," she said, sinking into her chair. "And another the sun had set in the east, blood rained from the sky and a woman gave birth to a pig. In times of crisis dire omens and dark signs are seen everywhere. There has not been a dragon of any size in the kingdom for centuries."

The King handed her the letter and her eyes widened at the signatories: Michael, Earl of Falchester, and Lucrecia, magister magnus of Falchester.

"Aurelian?" she asked.

William laughed. "I bloody well hope it is the magister deorum, sister."

Gorhelga presented herself for a royal scratch behind the ears. The King duly obliged.

"What should we do?" Karena asked him.

William stood up and stretched his arms above his head. "I'm going to get dressed." She glared at him, and he smiled. "About Aurelian? Nothing. I'm a king, not a god."

He rose from the table, and returned to his bedchamber to prepare for his coronation. A female visitor was awaiting him. Before his valets were permitted to help him into the ostentatious raiment the occasion demanded Catherine insisted upon inspecting his various wounds. She ran her trained eye over his scars, wounds and bruises. Her detached, serious manner amused William, for he was clad only in a pair of hose and naked from the waist up.

"You know," he murmured, "many a woman would be delighted to have their lord in such a state of obedient undress."

She prodded a sore spot near his backbone and he gritted his teeth. "Many a woman would have failed to save your life. Did that hurt?"

"It was mildly uncomfortable," he lied.

Catherine used a pestle to mash a concoction of ingredients in a mortar, then poured in a little water. "Hold still," she commanded.

A cool sensation spread across his back as she placed the poultice upon his tender spot and then wrapped a bandage around his stomach to keep it in place.

"Come back here after the coronation so I can check the cataplasm and ensure your wounds have not reopened."

William shook his head. "There's a feast afterwards. I cannot fail to attend my own coronation dinner."

"It will only take a moment, and you will need to change out of the coronation garb in any event. Of course, if you would prefer your first act after being crowned to be collapsing in a pool of your own blood..."

He sighed. "If you insist."

"I do."

A Hollow Knight entered. "Your Grace, the valets are here."

William nodded. "Send them in. I shall see you later today, Catherine."

Dismissed, Catherine left him just as the army of valets, one of them pushing a wheeled wooden chest of drawers, entered. Cream hose, long white boots and a cream undershirt were the first garments. A plain white tunic was next, followed by a white doublet upon which a dragon was depicted in hundreds of polished onyx stones. He was intrigued by the belt, and, hands clad in white gloves, picked it up for a closer look.

"It is made of the bones from a serpent's spine, Your Grace," one of the valets informed him. The bones were linked by silver chains, and had been cut and polished to be perfectly flat. It was a fine thing, fit for a coronation, but was tight enough to remind him of the poultice on his back. A ceremonial sword with a dragon bone handle and a glittering silver scabbard was hung on the belt. It felt good to have a blade at his hip again, even though it was little more than a bauble.

The top drawer of the chest was opened and a golden hand with emerald fingernails was removed. Its golden chain was hung around his neck, and then the cloak was readied for him. It was made more for riding than walking, William realised at once. Trimmed with ermine and seven feet long, the crimson cloak would trail upon the floor when he was on foot. It was fastened over his chest with a heavy silver chain.

The last object was the most precious. The Crown of Heaven was said to have been made for the Divine Pelasgus. Three dragon heads writhed up from the golden circlet, each rising to grip a ruby the size of a hen's egg. Seeing the holy relic resurrected memories of his nightmare, and he cringed. Its weight was greater than he imagined, though happily it was not quite so tight as he had feared.

William waited a moment whilst his valets checked that no speck of dirt or hint of grime besmirched his opulent garments, and then the servants left, taking the wheeled chest of drawers with them. He took the opportunity to pace around the room and grow accustomed to the feeling of the heavy crown gripping his skull.

There was a knock at the door, and he nodded to one of the Hollow Knights to see who it was.

"The Earl of Waldean, my liege."

William had him enter. The Earl was a short, well-fed man thirty years his senior. He wore a black beard and was dripping in gold jewellery. William spread his arms wide to embrace Simon Waldean. "How do I look?" he asked.

Simon cast a critical eye over the ensemble. "You've lost weight, but you always were a skinny bugger."

William laughed. "Some of us have been so frantic fighting Hykirs and traitors that we scarcely have time to indulge gluttony."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "I can hardly be held to blame for my contented roundness."

"No?"

"No. Every time I bed my wife she gives me a biscuit."

William found himself laughing again. "Perhaps I should teach Jane that trick."

Simon looked to check the door was closed before whispering, "From what I hear the daughter of Falchester is well-acquainted with tricks of all kinds. I'm sure she's a fine bed-warmer, but don't trust her with anything of importance, my king. To trust a Falchester is to take a snake to your bosom."

A second knock forestalled any response he might have made. Karena had sent along a message telling him to hurry up. William and Simon, escorted by the half dozen Hollow Knights, left the King's bedchamber and made their way to the stables. His heart pounded in his ears, louder even than the steel footsteps of his escort hammering the marble.

His nostrils twitched at the ripe aroma of horse dung long before he reached the stables. A strong contingent of guards, including City Watchmen, soldiers sworn to his service and more Hollow Knights, awaited him.

There was a veritable horde of friends and allies waiting with the guard. Karena and Stephen were both present, though his cousin sat on his steed with all the grace of a dog trying to ride a cow. William picked out Sir Hugh and Sir Ambrose, nodding acknowledgement to his long-standing bodyguards.

He stepped close enough to Jane that her perfume overpowered the stables' odour.

"You look most regal, Your Grace," she murmured.

He leaned close and whispered, "And you look like a queen, my lady."

His horse's white face was obscured beneath the glinting steel of decorative armour. A black caparison covered the horse's body, and upon the dark cloth Penmere's white dragon was emblazoned, rubies glinting in the drake's eye sockets.

William gritted his teeth as he mounted his horse for the first time in many a day. Sir Ambrose directed the Hollow Knights to lead the way out of the stables, and then the King followed them, with his sister, cousin and the Earl of Waldean riding close behind.

Beyond the gates of the royal palace the streets were packed with well-wishers, many of whom were already in a state of inebriated merriment. Cheers, whistles, applause and hurled flowers met his arrival. The road resembled a river of petals, so many flowers were strewn across it. The thunderous cacophony made him grateful that his horse was battle-bred and inured to the terrors of loud noise. It was good to be riding again, and he waved to the crowds, eliciting joyous cheers.

On the approach to Vespasian's Square golems lined the route. A shiver ran down his spine when he caught the immortal eye of the Sun's Daughter. When he passed them by the golems fell in behind him and followed the procession into Vespasian's Square.

The square was dominated by a statue which had been determined by the Church, despite its face-covering helmet, to be the Divine Vespasian. The stone statue wore a cloak that pooled upon the ground and held a broadsword in both hands, the weapon pointing straight down at the earth.

Thousands of commoners filled the square, held back by a line of Watchmen and Hollow Knights. Cheers erupted upon William's entry and escorted the King as his horse walked through the square. He emerged from Vespasian's shadow onto the Path of Heaven, the street which led to the Julian Palace, Penmere's cathedral.

It did not have the spires of a man-made cathedral, and seemed as much a fortress as a palace. The Path of Heaven led to the northernmost tower, which soared sixty feet into the sky. In the middle of the cathedral was a hall large enough to seat four thousand worshippers, and it was there that William would be crowned.

The procession slowed, and at the door to the palace William dismounted. A monk wearing a rough brown cassock took the reins, and the King paused on the threshold. His back and legs ached far more than he had expected, but the weakness he had dreaded remained a mere phantom.

Sir Ambrose and Sir Hugh walked ahead of him to the door, where Patriarch Jeremiah waited. Denland's chief priest wore a purple cassock decorated with ornate patterns in gold thread and a mitre to match. Behind him, lining the long walk to the heart of the palace, hundreds of monks chanted jubilant hymns.

"My child, you take on a heavy burden this day," Jeremiah said, clasping his hand and smiling. "Remember, through the trials you will face and the flattery sycophants will heap upon you that you are mortal. When you die, there will be an accounting of your cruelties and kindnesses."

William returned the smile. "Let us hope there is more peace than bloodshed ahead, father."

The Patriarch led him and the assembled nobility into the cathedral. Whether it was due to his age or the solemnity of the occasion, Jeremiah walked at a slow pace. William's heart pounded faster and faster.

In the grand hall William's footsteps echoed loudly. He and Jeremiah continued walking straight ahead to the altar, whilst the many nobles behind slowly filled up the row upon row of pews. Watchmen, soldiers and Hollow Knights took up positions between the lofty fluted columns that supported the hall's high ceiling. Several of the smaller golems had also entered to watch the coronation.

"When a virtuous golem dies, does its spirit go to Heaven?" he asked the Patriarch. The two men were stood together some way from the pews, which were still only half-full.

Jeremiah raised his bushy eyebrows. "I do not believe I have ever been asked that before, Your Grace. I should have to consult the holy texts and profound philosophies of the Church, but I do not see why not."

When the pews were finally filled the Patriarch raised his hands for silence, and addressed the congregation.

"My lords, ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to bear witness to the coronation of William, Duke of Penmere. His ascension to the throne of Denland comes during a time of trouble, and strife threatens to drown the land in blood. Let us all pray that peace returns to Denland swiftly, and that war takes its leave of our fair kingdom."

The Crown of Heaven was beginning to make his head throb. It was not the nightmarish pain of his dream, but made the rambling cleric's speech harder to bear. Examples of virtue from the Divine and Denland's own history poured from the Patriarch's mouth. With every word spoken William's legs seemed a little less steady, and his head a little more painful.

The echoing sermon was at last delivered in full, and the Patriarch commanded William to kneel. He did so, stifling a grunt, and Jeremiah removed the Crown of Heaven. The Patriarch handed the weighty crown to an attendant monk, and took from a second monk the Royal Oak Crown. Compared to the glittering glory of the Crown of Heaven it was a simple thing, carved from a single piece of oak. No jewels or precious metal embellished the wood. Numerous leaves had been etched into the crown, and a roaring bear arose from the front of it.

Every king had such a crown crafted for him a short time before coronation, to symbolise the strength and longevity of his reign, but also the impermanence of worldly kingship when compared to the Divine. The oaken crown was a little heavier than William had expected.

"This day the burden of kingship, its great rights and responsibilities fall upon your shoulders. May you have the strength of arms to keep your people safe and the strength of heart to show compassion to the wretched."

The Patriarch held out a hand, which the King took. Jeremiah pulled William to his feet, and then knelt to kiss the royal hand. Jeremiah stood and raised his hands to the assembled congregation.

"May the Divine bless the life and reign of William, Duke of Penmere, made this day King of All Denland," he declared.

"May the Divine bless him," the congregation spoke as one.

William smiled as the thousands gathered cheered his crowning. The golems were eerily silent and utterly still, but everyone else was jubilant. Even Gorhelga, sat beside Karena, was wagging her tail in something approaching enthusiasm.

Once the cheering had died down, the most important men in the cathedral presented themselves to swear fealty. Protocol dictated that Simon Waldean, being the only Earl in the congregation, be first. William's sister, however, trampled upon custom by approaching her brother before all others.

Karena knelt before him. "You have my fealty, Your Grace," she said formally, kissing his signet ring.

"And you have my gratitude for your stewardship of Penmere," he told her, before she made way for the Earl of Waldean.

Only a select few, such as the Baron of Longcove and the wealthiest of guildsmen, approached him, but he was nevertheless greatly relieved to receive the last of them. As was traditional, his subjects left before him, giving him a welcome opportunity to sit down and take the weight off his feet.

Patriarch Jeremiah wished him good fortune and then took his leave, granting William a rare moment of peace. The ride back through the city was glorious, and his mind was bursting with thoughts not of the ceremony behind or the feast ahead but the prospect of war. As Catherine had suggested he visited her first, and whilst she checked his back he dictated orders to a herald.

"I want every soldier here ready to march the day after tomorrow. Arms, armour, food and horses must be in good order. Make it plain to the quartermaster that competence on his part will lead to golden rewards, and failure to a hanging."

The herald scurried away, and Catherine sighed.

"It is still too soon. You will exert yourself to exhaustion, and you cannot prosecute a war from a sickbed," she scolded him.

Once again naked from the waist up, oaken crown discarded on his bed, he smiled at her insolence. "You sound like a second sister. The army, and myself, will be well-served by your skills. You're coming with us when we march to war."
A King's Gift

William led the army on its march west, along the road towards Harcester. He had not mustered a large army, barely fifteen hundred men, but reinforcements would bolster it at Harcester, and again when it passed through the mountains and reached Caer Seren.

The ride invigorated William. The biting sea-borne wind made his body shiver and flesh pale, and he pulled his cloak close. After so many days cooped up indoors, even the chill wind was a welcome sensation.

"How are you faring?" William asked Stephen. His cousin had seemed reluctant to accompany the army, but the choice was not his to make. Although not a warrior, he was technically the next in line to the throne and, despite his meekness, William rather liked him. Stephen was, however, too weak to be left behind to rule Penmere, and Lord Seymour Farrington had been appointed Law Lord to rule in the King's name.

"I'd be faring better at home," his cousin replied. "I barely got a wink of sleep last night."

For a day or two the weather had been fine, but one night the heavens had opened and heavy rain transformed the camp into soaking misery. Campfires hissed in futile displeasure as the storm doused them, and the men on sentry duty had grown so numb they struggled to keep a grip on their spears.

The next day grumbles and shivering infected the soldiers, but the complaints soon died down. William marched them hard, keen to accustom his men to rapid movements. The histories his cousin had given him to read during his convalescence had revealed many interesting details of the last civil war. Battles and sieges were critical, but so too were marches. As in a duel, fast footwork could prove a deciding factor in determining the victor.

William crested a hill and tugged on his horse's reins to pull it to a halt, his sister stopping beside him. Scarcely a mile away, a canvas city had sprung up. Hundreds of colourful tents flying his banner and those of his vassal lords nestled in the shelter of Harcester's towering walls.

Three riders, and their retinues, emerged from the camp and cantered to meet him. The lead rider wore a blue surcoat, upon which the white stag of Harcester pranced.

"Your Grace," Silas said, "it is my pleasure to be the first to welcome you to my father's fair city."

"Good to see you again, Silas," he replied. The Viscount of Harcester had many children, but all save one were infants or girls. "I trust you shall be at the feast this evening?"

Silas smiled. "I shall, Your Grace. Perhaps I might beg a dance from your sister?"

"You might beg," Karena responded.

William laughed.

The other two riders greeted the King and congratulated him on his coronation and recovery. Giles, Baron of Longcove, and Ralph, son of the new Baron of Trewithiel, led vassal forces from their respective cities. Ralph's father had not forgotten to whom he owed fealty, and Ralph himself was cloying in his eagerness to demonstrate his loyalty to Penmere.

Giles bowed his head and flourished a hand at his camp. "I trust you forgive me for leaving your feast with precipitous haste, Your Grace?"

"Would that every lord provided me with such a coronation gift," William replied.

***

Stephen stared at the reflection of his ridiculous doublet. The hems of his sleeves were five inches longer than sensible, he disliked the brimless blue cap and he had a strange metal object strapped to his belt. Of everything he wore, only the silver pendant around his neck actually belonged to him. The miniature circlet was a symbol of Remigius in memory of his long dead family, though he rarely wore it these days.

"I shouldn't have to wear this," he muttered. Despite Karena's instructions he unbuckled the sword belt and tossed it onto his bed.

He returned his gaze to the looking glass. A valet had knocked on his door, but he had waved the man away. Getting dressed in such gaudy garments was bad enough without an audience. Something was wrong with his clothes, and it took him a moment to realise they were made for someone else. Probably William. The phantom for whom they had been tailored was around the same height as Stephen, but altogether more filled out with muscle, or fat. Which described the vast majority of men.

Abandoning all hope of making himself appear more presentable, he rummaged around in his pack for the history of Eirik's Wall he had been reading. The only good thing about being kept from sleep during the rainstorm had been the hours of reading he had enjoyed. Barely had he set eyes upon the first line than the door to his bedchamber opened and a huge smoky-grey cat prowled in. Karena followed, accompanied by Sir Horace.

"Get your nose out of that book and get dressed," she ordered. His cousin wore an elegant blue damask dress, and had her dark red hair piled up in a high bun. A brooch of a silver swan, her personal crest, was pinned to the fabric of her dress.

Stephen sighed, put the book back in his pack and stood up. "I am dressed," he said, spreading his arms. The points of his sleeves dangled like a jester's motley.

Karena raised an eyebrow. "You forgot your sword. We are in the middle of a war, and you, lamentably, are the heir to the throne. The least you can do is wear a blade." She picked up the sword belt and tossed it to him.

Stephen caught it instinctively, and frowned as he buckled the belt back on. He checked in the mirror that it looked, if not good, at least acceptable. The silly blue cap made it look like someone had dunked his head in a bucket of paint.

"You'll be sat between the Falchester slut and Sir Hugh," she told him. "Try not to ogle the harlot. William put you there because he feels he can trust you not to try and steal his bed-warmer."

The three of them, preceded by the lynx, ambled towards the feasting hall. Raucous cheers, pounding music and the loud chatter of drunken men met Stephen's ears long before he saw the hall. A seneschal had them wait a moment to be introduced, though Gorhelga shunned etiquette and loped in unannounced. The servant took a few steps into the huge hall and slammed his iron-shod staff onto the floor three times. Conversation and merriment fled before silence, and all eyes turned to the seneschal.

"I announce the arrival of Princess Karena, sister of the King, and Prince Stephen, the King's cousin," he proclaimed.

At their naming every man and woman on the lower tables rose to their feet and raised their drinks in toast to the King's kin. Stephen stared at the floor and scratched Gorhelga's ears until the toast was over. Duty done, the seneschal returned to the door and the babble of conversation rose as the feasting fellows sat down.

Long tables and benches filled most of the hall. Servants poured wine and musicians played merry tunes, squeezing between narrow gaps to attend to the hundreds of men and women enjoying the feast.

Half a dozen steps led to the high table. Before climbing them, Stephen bowed before William and Lord Harcester. The Viscount's hair had abandoned the crown of his head, leaving only a handful of straggly grey locks marooned near his ears. A servant gestured at a chair between Lady Jane Falchester and Sir Hugh, who was at the end of the table. Stephen thanked the servant and took his seat.

Shrieking flutes, thumping drums and shrill lutes conspired to inflict a dreadful headache on him. The Falchester slut, as his cousin had so charmingly described her, was polite for a short time, but she soon took to ignoring him in her efforts to attract the attention of the King.

Stephen shunned the array of Felarian wines, cider from Arthenigan and dangerously strong Kuhrisch beers on offer and instead had the servants fetch him some weak ale.

"You should take the chance to enjoy some vintage wine," Sir Hugh advised. "We will not spend many nights in a city, and fine wines will soon become a rarity."

Stephen finished chewing a delicious morsel of goose. "I would sooner retain my wits than drown them in wine. Besides, you are drinking the same ale as me."

The knight scratched his black beard. "I'm only the King's guard. Drink slows a man's sword arm."

The hall fell silent. Stephen watched as a well-dressed man approached the steps to the high table. The stranger knelt and the King waved him to his feet.

"Your Grace, my liege," the stranger addressed the King and the Viscount, "it is my honour to present to you a fair lady who has played for this hall many times in recent months. Pray silence, for Emma."

The man stepped aside, and a short, slender girl with long brown hair walked towards the high table. Emma clutched a violin in one hand, and its bow in the other. She curtseyed for the King and the Viscount, her bronze lute pendant glinting in the lamplight.

Emma began to play, teasing tragic beauty from the strings and summoning such sorrow from wood and horsehair Stephen could scarcely believe his ears. Not a word was whispered as the whole hall listened. Thoughts of the chronicle banished, Stephen devoted his attention to her. The piece ended, but the immediate applause was interrupted as she began a second, far livelier tune. Her bow was in constant swift motion, and the men of the hall, including Stephen, tapped their toes in time with the music. Soon they were stamping their feet, a booming beat complementing the frenetic, flawless violin. Emma played the final note, ending the music so abruptly half her audience stamped their feet in mistaken expectation.

Ear-splitting applause smothered any hope of conversation, and when the King rose to his feet everyone else followed him. Emma curtseyed to him, and then the Viscount, and was joined by the stranger who had introduced her.

"Your taste in music pleases us, Sir Trenton," William told him. "As does your skill, Emma."

The knight bowed deeply. "I am honoured, Your Grace. Emma is a talented girl, but mute. To celebrate your coronation, I offer her service to you. I am sure you will find her a fitting servant to entertain you night and day."

"It is a grand gift indeed, and one I thank you for," the King told Sir Trenton. "I fear, however, that my cousin's bed grows colder than my own. He shall welcome her as his servant."

"I shall?" Stephen asked in surprise. Delighted confusion filled him at the prospect of Emma's company.

The King nodded. "Good. Now, let us drink and dance, for on the morrow we ride."

Stephen ate little more during the feast. Jesters juggled and dancers pranced for the delectation of the King and the Viscount, and dish after dish was presented for royal consumption. Stephen grew tired of waving away the servants offering him pike and boar, goose and mutton. His ridiculously august station as heir to the throne was due solely to his family's tragic deaths in a shipwreck, and he had never been groomed for the rank of prince. The library was where he felt comfortable, not the high table. He had no need of a violinist, but turning her away would be to break royal command. And he did not want to.

"You should eat something," Sir Hugh said.

Stephen dragged himself away from his reverie. "I have. I don't have much of an appetite."

The knight shrugged. "Not for feasting, at least. I daresay you've a head full of thoughts about your new servant."

Stephen blushed. "I've never had an, er, violinist serve me before."

Sir Hugh scratched his beard. "You mean a bed-warmer."

"Well, yes."

"Just be kind to her, and remember that you hold the whip hand. Fealty flows up, kindness flows down. That's the way to rule, whether it's over a kingdom or one mute girl. Besides," Hugh continued, helping himself to a finger-sized piece of pike, "with the kingdom at war it'd be a damned fool who angered someone who could kill him while he slept."

Stephen stayed at the feast for as long as he felt obligated, before asking leave of the Viscount to retire to his chambers. The Viscount had descended into a drunken stupor, but murmured something close enough to permission that Stephen felt comfortable leaving the bawdy banquet behind. He was glad to abandon gluttony and sloth, and instead spend some time on the fruitful endeavour of writing his chronicle of the war.

Upon reaching the peaceful sanctuary of his bedchamber he unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it, and his despicable blue cap, onto the floor. He lit some extra candles, dabbed his quill into the inkwell, opened up his book and began scrawling upon the parchment. Halfway through the first line there was a knock on the door, startling him so much he jumped and cut a jagged line of ink through his writing.

"Fiddlesticks!" he muttered at the blemished page.

There was a second knock at the door, and he left his disfigured chronicle to see who it was. Karena would have simply barged in, but perhaps it was Sir Hugh.

He swung the door open and saw Emma. Stammering hesitancy caught in his throat, and instead of struggling to speak he stood aside and gestured for her to enter. She still wore her banquet dress, but when he closed the door and turned around the garment had tumbled to the floor in a pool of blue silk.

Emma wore nothing but a bronze lute pendant on a silver chain.

Stephen stared, then averted his eyes, and then stared again. His tongue had been tied upon first sight of her, and now his wits had fled before her beauty. Desire and shame burned within him. He fixed his gaze on her brown eyes. She did not smile, and her eyes were filled with cold despair, even as she took a step towards him.

Stephen turned his back on her to afford her some belated modesty. "I-I'm greatly flattered, but I think it would be best if you were to get dressed," he told her.

He did not look back as she got dressed, and stumbled when she barged past him to reach the door. She had already slammed it shut before he could utter another word. He stared at the door and tried to fathom what had just happened.

"I must be a halfwit," he muttered.

***

Stephen tugged his cowl down to shield his face from the heavy rain. A gale plucked his hood back, and the rain lashed his skin. He pulled the cowl over his head a second time, and held it in place.

The army had stopped for the night within sight of a monastery, and he rode with several others to offer his prayers. He would pray for his cousin's triumph, and that Emma's muteness might be ended.

Stephen had hoped a magister could be paid to restore her speech, but Sir Trenton had claimed the magistri believed it was a problem with her brain, so delicate that any attempt to correct it might kill her.

His stomach lurched into his mouth when his horse crested an unseen hillock and plunged down the slope afterwards.

"Slow your horse," Gregory advised him. The Lascarian, a tall, broad-shouldered man, shunned hoods and seemed content for the driving rain to strike his face.

Lightning ripped through the sky, illuminating the escutcheon of a quill carved in the monastery's tower. The monks were the Sons of Falcandus, an order of scribes who fell under the authority of the Patriarch.

Stephen pulled gently on the reins, and had his horse trot alongside Gregory's. "Do you suppose they would object to me looking through their library?" he asked Gregory.

"Doubtful. I suspect they would be rather pleased to have the King's cousin so interested in their labours."

Stephen reached the monastery and dismounted. Gregory hammered his fist on the monastery's front door. He waited awhile, then thumped it a second time.

A little window in the door was opened, and a gaunt face peered out. "A most curious hour to visit us, brother monk," he greeted the Lascarian. "I am Brother Barnabas. What brings you to our door in the depths of darkness?"

"We seek leave to pray before Falcandus and the relics."

The window shut, and the door opened. Three youthful novices marched out into the rain and took several reins each. Brother Barnabas, scarcely five feet tall and skinnier than a starved rat, ushered Stephen and the other guests inside. Stephen was grateful to finally draw back his hood and be out of the pelting rain.

"Brother, I was hoping I might look through your library," he said.

"I see no reason why not. Might I ask your name?"

Stephen cleared his throat. "I'm Stephen Penmere."

"Prince Stephen, forgive me, I did not recognise you."

Stephen smiled. "It's dark, brother, and there's nothing to forgive."

Barnabas bowed his head. "Grace is the most royal dignity, my lord. Timothy will show you to the library. If you require anything else, you have but to ask."

The three drenched novices returned to the monastery's shelter, and Barnabas directed one of them to see Stephen to the library. Timothy led him by lamplight through the monastery's narrow corridors to a library the equal of any in Penmere.

Stephen had intended to scour the bookshelves for histories of war that might prove useful for his cousin, but stumbled instead upon an exotic tome about the Ndesi. The southern race was renowned for their excellent night vision, and maintained silence during their nocturnal warfare by using hands rather than mouths to communicate. The discovery kindled a plan in his mind, and he dispatched Timothy to fetch parchment and ink.

Whilst the others prayed for Falcandus' blessing and protection Stephen frantically scribbled down the basic principles and most common signs the Ndesi used. On his return to camp he lit a candle and continued his work into the night.

***

"I must confess it is a surprise, pleasant of course, that you wished to speak with me privately," Baldwin confided.

Karena sipped her wine. "The King has many loyal men in whom he places great trust, but I fear that spending so much time surrounded by soldiers lacking the sense to consider any remedy beyond the point of a sword will lead him astray. We must ensure the King is suitably guided, that he recognises the potential of more subtle methods."

"And you propose that we work together, to this end?"

Karena twirled a lock of dark red hair around her finger. "Just so. Two voices speak louder than one, and there is a risk he will eschew your elderly and my feminine voice to indulge the witless ramblings of bloodthirsty brutes."

Baldwin raised his goblet. "To guiding the King down a more prosperous path."

Karena raised her own vessel and drained dry the wine within.

"What do you make of the plan to strike Norshire?" Baldwin enquired.

The King had not deviated from his first plan of gaining reinforcements in the White Stag Mountains and then marching south to attack Norshire. The shire's capital, Norcott, was renowned as being the most contemptible seat of an earl in the whole kingdom.

"Taking Norshire is a sound strategy. The White Stag Mountains and Penmere are easy to defend, and attacking Ashbury instead would be far more difficult. Still, there is more than one way to skin a cat."

Baldwin sipped his wine. "Oh? A secret you might care to share?"

Karena tapped the side of her nose. "Not yet. The Earl of Norcott is torn between loyalty to the King and the assumption Esden will triumph."

"You mean he is uncertain whether to be more fearful of the army that will attack him if he stays with John Esden, or the larger army that will attack him if he does not?"

"Well, quite."

The lord finished off his goblet of wine, poured some more for himself and refilled her goblet at the same time. Gorhelga stalked into the tent, dragging a dead sheep. The Fenshire lynx dropped her trophy and left. Karena sighed.

"At least you shall never want for mutton," Baldwin said.

They spoke a little more, and then Baldwin bade her goodnight. Karena looked down at the ravaged sheep and muttered a curse. Gorhelga was her most loyal servant, but none of the others decorated her tent with fresh corpses.

***

Stephen's thighs ached from constant riding. Since leaving Harcester, William had cajoled laggards and exhorted the army to march as though the Damned were chasing them.

"He's marching with the men to prove his strength. Hard to whisper the King's weak as a kitten if he's marching ten miles a day in armour," Karena explained.

"Surely nobody believes he's still sickly?" Stephen asked.

Karena sighed. "How does someone read so much and remain so ignorant? Men believe what they see, and little else."

Stephen gritted his teeth and bit back a riposte. "I'll be glad when we reach Carnmel Castle. Hopefully we can stop marching for a night or two."

In the distance, the White Stag Mountains cut through the earth like the teeth of a world-eating dragon. Carnmel Castle was coming into sight, and from it a single horseman was heading their way.

"Not enjoying the ride, cousin?" William asked.

Stephen turned his head, and saw the King walking alongside his horse. "I'm just concerned that the men will be worn out if this pace is maintained."

"We'll stop for a night or two, and give the pack animals a rest."

The rider drew nearer, and Stephen saw that it was Silas Harcester. Sir Douglas Martyn, the castle's master, had not replied to a letter warning him to stockpile provisions, so Silas had been sent to ensure supplies were ready for the army.

"I might've expected Sir Douglas to ride out to meet you," Karena said.

Stephen glanced at her, then returned his gaze to Silas, who had slowed his horse to a trot.

"Your Grace, I bring terrible news," Silas said, not waiting for the King to greet him. "Sir Douglas has defected to Esden. Carnmel Castle is in enemy hands."
The Royal Command

Carnmel Castle melded into the mountains, so perfectly did its grey stone match that of the cliffs that soared above it. The castle commanded the road from Penmere to Caer Seren, dominating the surrounding countryside. The crenellated towers bristled with scorpions, a mixture of miniature siege weapon and mounted bow. Above the battlements the red boar of Esden flew.

In the King's sprawling tent William had gathered his chief lieutenants. A request to speak to Sir Douglas had been sent, and the castle's commander had agreed to meet the King and one other near the walls.

"We must go around," Baldwin insisted. "North, to Holstone Castle. We can cross the mountains that way. Unless Sir Douglas can be persuaded to change his mind, of course."

"I wouldn't trust Douglas if he did," Hugh replied. "The man's a traitor."

Giles and Silas murmured agreement.

"Worse than that, Sir Douglas is the King's own vassal," Simon Waldean said. "Word will spread that the King cannot march through his own land without facing opposition. Carnmel Castle will be a difficult place to take by force of arms, but that is better than slinking away to Holstone."

Baldwin scowled. "We cannot sacrifice lives in a needless, futile assault when we can simply go another way."

"And if Holstone Castle flies the red boar?" Lucien countered.

"Carnmel Castle will be ours. Whether it is the will of Sir Douglas or not," the King said, his back to the room and the noonday sun warming his face. "The time for parley approaches."

"There is a small matter which requires your attention first, Your Grace," his sister said. "The Duke of Esden has put a bounty on your head. A man's weight in gold will go to your killer."

Silence descended upon the meeting.

William scratched his burgeoning beard. "Very well. Place a bounty on the Duke's head in response."

"Your Grace, a bidding war for assassination will make any reconciliation–" Baldwin said, before Karena interrupted.

"How much?"

"Sixpence," William answered. Simon Waldean laughed, and Karena raised an eyebrow. "Let the kingdom know the worth of a young and vigorous man compared to a withered old husk."

William took Sir Hugh with him to the parley. They ambled on horseback towards the castle.

"How fast can a scorpion shoot?" he asked Hugh. The weapons were never used when raiding Hykirlund and he had little experience of them.

"Much slower than a bow or sling. Perhaps one bolt for every four arrows a bow could loose," the knight answered. "But an arrow is easier to defend against. If a scorpion stings you the blow is invariably fatal."

There was a single man on each tower, and none on the wall. William did not relax his guard. Perhaps as many as a hundred men could be hiding behind the battlements. He doubted Sir Douglas would try such a ploy, though. The castellan was clearly a traitor, but if he had intended to use tricks to kill William then he would have feigned loyalty and taken the chance to kill him unawares.

The black steel portcullis within the gate was raised, chains clanking as they were wound.

"Are the gates and walls protected by glyphs?" he asked Sir Hugh.

"Yes, sire. I could not vouch for the last time they were renewed but it would take a great deal to tumble the walls."

From the open gate two riders emerged. Neither wore surcoats or helmets, but both had armour and swords.

Sir Douglas Martyn was a gaunt man of middling size. He and his bodyguard, who was altogether larger, trotted down to meet the King and pulled their horses to a halt a few feet away.

"It saddens me to see a knight behaving like a cur. Repent of your treachery, and I will grant you your life, to live out your days as a monk," William said.

"William, there is no joy for me in this. I am no traitor. I believe the Duke of Esden speaks the truth. If Maurice Trewithiel had taken your life then the kingdom would be at peace. Allow me to intercede with King John on your behalf. He has no desire for war with his countrymen, but nor can he allow a bastard to trample on the law and sit upon the throne."

"Trust my life to the Esden traitor? I think not. Carnmel Castle would be a hard place for me to storm," William acknowledged, "but not impossible. You have perhaps two hundred men. I have more than ten for every man of yours. Spare us needless bloodshed, surrender the castle and I shall be merciful to your men, and to you."

Sir Douglas shook his head. "I cannot–"

"I give you three days to think on it," William interrupted. Before the castellan could say another word he turned his horse and rode back to the army.

***

Karena walked through the camp, Gorhelga and Sir Horace trailing her. She passed Catherine's tent and favoured the apothecary with a smile, which was returned with a blush. The King's tent was easy to find, for it dwarfed the others and was the only one with Hollow Knights on sentry duty.

"Wait here," she told Sir Horace.

The knight folded his arms and she left him in the darkness. It was not a question of distrusting Horace, whom she knew to be beyond reproach, but certain matters were best spoken only to those whom they concerned. The whore of Falchester had been seen scurrying into Baldwin's tent, so the King would probably be alone, at least for a short time.

Karena was wrong. Sir Hugh and William were speaking in hushed tones, which were crushed beneath silence when she entered, Gorhelga at her heels.

"Should I return later?" she asked, curious as to why the knight was attending the King at such a late hour.

"There is not much later left." William shrugged. "In any case, I was going to tell you about this. You are aware my bride-to-be has been imprisoned by the Usurper?"

"Indeed."

"I am sending Sir Hugh to rescue her."

Karena raised an eyebrow, and looked in disbelief at the knight. Hugh was not only one of the most famous warriors in the kingdom, his bushy black beard made him very easy to recognise.

"Might I recommend you make him shave?"

William rolled his eyes. "I do not delight in your scheming ways, dear sister, but I am not a fool. Hugh, I have arranged for you to be shaved by Catherine. Pay her a visit when we are done here, and take a large hood to obscure your identity when you enter and leave."

"Why Catherine?" Karena asked.

"She had ample opportunity to kill me, and has proven her loyalty. Besides, she also knows how to tattoo a man, and will paint Hugh's face with purple ink. That will help embellish his disguise," her brother said.

Sir Hugh stroked his beard and grunted. "Very well. I cannot deny it will make it harder for me to be recognised, but I would far rather stay here and fight at your side."

William slapped him on the shoulder. "I would prefer that also, but you are the only man who can do this task. I have Karena, Baldwin, Jane and Stephen for subtle plans and countless brave men for battle, but only you combine a sharp mind, a quick arm and undoubted loyalty."

Hugh bowed his head. "I shall endeavour to rescue your future wife, my liege, and deliver her safe and sound. But... what if I am unable to rescue her? I do not ask this lightly, but as a prisoner to the Usurper she serves to force Hurstwood into the war on his side. If I cannot save her, would you prefer her as a living hostage, or a martyr?"

"I have confidence you shall succeed in rescuing her."

The knight was dismissed and sent along to Catherine for his shaving. Before Karena could raise the matter for which she had visited her brother's tent he asked her how she would crack open Carnmel Castle. Whilst she pondered her answer he poured a goblet of wine for her.

After her first sip she replied, "Chopping and moving the wood for siege engines would take too long. The nearest forest must be three days away. If the garrison were merely led astray by Sir Douglas they would have taken the opportunity to betray him when the army drew near, or when he left the castle to speak with you. Storming the walls, if we had ladders, could work, but our losses would be enormous." Karena took another drink of the wine and saw the twinkle in her brother's green eyes. "Please tell me you are not considering climbing the mountains."

William grinned. "If we can do it as children I can do it as a man."

"You did not do it as a child," Karena pointed out. "You fell and broke your back. If a magister had not been with us you would have perished. It's lucky for you your big sister was there to go and find him." She finished off the wine and smiled. "Perhaps I should lead the assault, given I actually managed not to maim myself."

"I shall lead a contingent of Hollow Knights. We will scale the mountainside, claim the wall and open the gates. The army, led by Simon, will charge through the gates and the garrison will be compelled to surrender."

"A clever plan," she conceded, "though its cleverness is matched by the foolishness in seeking to lead it yourself. There are many nobles and knights but only one king. Exposing yourself to such danger is foolhardy."

William drained his goblet dry and poured himself another. "Quite the contrary. It is safer than facing battle, for both the army and myself. I know doubts linger in the hearts of my men about my health, and leading this scheme to success will do much to assuage their fears. Besides, if I'm unwilling to risk my life for my crown then why should they?"

"Quite so, Your Grace," Lady Jane Falchester said as she entered the tent. The snake lowered her ermine-trimmed hood and shed her warm cloak, beneath which she wore only a sleeveless silk dress.

Gorhelga growled at the noblewoman, and Karena hid a smile in her goblet.

The lynx's displeasure at her arrival chased the composure from Jane's face, but it soon returned. "Unless you intend to watch, I suggest you take your leave, Karena," she said.

Karena slowly finished her wine. "Be careful and tend to your health, brother. Perhaps you should visit Catherine afterwards to ensure you are still hale."

"Afraid I'll over-exert myself?"

Karena shrugged. "A little. I was more concerned that you might catch something. You know what they say about laying with dogs."

Before the Falshire harlot could reply, Karena turned on her heels and strode out, Gorhelga at her side. Once they were back in the darkness she allowed herself a smile.

***

Baldwin Mallen was as nervous of her brother's dangerous scheme as herself. He had been keen to try and dissuade the King, but Karena promised to turn her brother's mind once the doxy from Falshire slithered from his tent.

After Baldwin left her she decided to visit her brother's tent and see if Jane was still there. Sir Horace yawned loudly, and she was about to allow him to get some rest when she saw something strange. No Hollow Knights or other soldiers were standing guard outside the King's tent. She unsheathed her dagger and ran inside.

William was fending off two swordsmen. A third lay face down on the ground. Gorhelga leapt from the shadows upon the nearer man, her weight driving him to the ground. A chainmail hauberk protected his body but the cat's jaws closed around the back of his neck, blood gushed and he was still. The King, heartened by the lynx's aid, parried a downward slash from his remaining foe. The parry knocked his enemy's broadsword high, and he cut his own sword across the man's neck, twisting the blade to turn the cut into an ugly gash. The foe staggered backwards and Sir Horace stabbed him in the back of the head. The sword's tip pierced his skull and thrust from his eye socket, tearing the soft eye to bloody horror.

"Your timing is impeccable," William said, slumping into a chair. He glanced at Gorhelga. "Perhaps I should knight your lynx."

"Are you injured?" Karena asked.

The King poked at the new holes that had been cut into his tunic. "I have no wound worthy of the name. Behold the countenance of the first man I killed."

With his steel boot Sir Horace turned over the corpse that had been face down. Karena stared in disbelief at the face of Quick Nick Highford, sworn enemy of the Duke of Esden.

"Nicholas Highford? Why?" she asked.

William shrugged. "The wretch claimed the Usurper had promised to take back Highford for him. Damned fool." His voice trailed off and he fell forward from the chair onto the ground.

Karena rushed forward, running her eyes over his body for signs of a deep wound, but there was none.

Sir Horace knelt by the fallen swords. "My lady, the weapons are poisoned," he told her.

She was lost for a words, but only for a moment. "Find Catherine and bring her here. Do not speak of this to anyone else."

Horace nodded and fled into the night.

Karena struggled to drag her brother onto the table. Her dagger sliced through his sumptuous clothing, and she counted the wounds he had. Only thrice had his enemies managed to draw blood, and none of the wounds seemed deep. She had little knowledge of healing, but poured wine from a flagon to try and wash away any poison that was clinging to the edges of his wounds.

Gorhelga nudged the back of her legs and Karena looked up from her brother to see Sir Horace return, followed by Catherine.

"What happened?" the apothecary asked upon seeing the unconscious monarch.

"Three assassins attempted to kill him," Karena said. "His life may be in danger. The wounds are small but tainted with poison. Unless you aid him he may die, and with him all our hopes of success."

Catherine ran her fingers over the wounds. "You washed them with wine?"

Karena nodded.

"You were wise, my lady. Poison is not as easy to mend as a broken bone and cleansing the wounds will help." Catherine examined William's body quickly, checking for any injury serious enough to warrant attention. "The cuts themselves are nothing to cause concern. I must fetch some things from my tent, to try and identify the poison and the antidote."

Sir Horace gathered the blades the assassins had wielded. "These are coated with the poison."

Catherine nodded, and withdrew to get what she needed. Karena ordered Horace to fetch some Hollow Knights, and Stephen. The apothecary returned first and began the process of examining the poisoned blades.

Sir Ambrose and thirty Hollow Knights entered. On Karena's orders, they surrounded the tent.

"Do not admit anyone except myself, Stephen, Sir Horace or Catherine," she told Ambrose. "And do not tell anyone the King has been poisoned. The last thing we need is to encourage a turncoat to try and complete the task."

"Yes, my lady. What of the King's plan to scale the cliffs?"

She sighed. "I shall lead the attack. You Hollow Knights won't take orders from anyone else, will you?"

"Prince Stephen," Ambrose answered.

Karena laughed. As if summoned by his name, her cousin entered the tent and saw Catherine holding a mirror over William's mouth to ensure he still had breath in his lungs. The blood drained from Stephen's face and he stuttered over his words.

"W-what h-happened?"

"The King has been poisoned. Smile, cousin. If he dies you'll ascend to the throne."

Stephen staggered over to a corner of the tent and vomited.

"By the Divine, you're royal. Try and damned well act like it. Catherine is a talented woman. I am certain if anyone can save him, she can. He was in a far worse state before, and she healed him." Karena approached her cousin and whispered in Stephen's ear, "If he dies, I shall marry you. The crown may rest on your head, but the sceptre will be in my hands. Now wipe your chin, and try not to void your bowels."

A thought occurred to her, and Karena approached Sir Ambrose. "Incidentally, has Sir Hugh left yet?" she asked him.

"No, my lady. Should I fetch him?" the Hollow Knight asked.

Karena smiled. "I know he is dear to the King. I shall go and tell him myself."

***

Hugh's face felt odd. He had worn a beard since he was sixteen, and being without one after more than twenty years was most peculiar. A pair of purple serpents writhed across his cheeks, their open jaws spread as though the wingless dragons were poised to devour his eyes. The locks on his head had been shorn as well, and the night seemed cold on his suddenly bare flesh.

Hugh was not sentimental about weapons and felt little compunction about leaving behind his sword. The blade was well made, but the wolf head carved into the hilt marked it as his weapon and he could not risk it being recognised. He had given the sword to Grandpa Ken, and the youth had been well-pleased to accept it. Hundreds of swords had been forged at the King's command, steel teeth for the white dragon of Penmere in its battle with the Esden boar. The King had given him a well-balanced, but unremarkable weapon to replace his distinctive blade.

He practised a few strokes with his new sword, and then slid it back into its scabbard.

"You look quite the Arthenigan warrior," Princess Karena observed from the door to his tent. "May I come in?"

Hugh bowed his head. "Of course, my lady. I was born in Aberwyn," he told her.

The princess said, "I did not know that. I thought you were born and raised in the Mere."

"Raised, but not born. My father fled Arthenigan after some bad blood with a petty knight. I daresay I shall be able to pass as an Artheniganwr well enough."

The princess smiled at him. "I bring word from the King. He deems it too risky to delay, and has decided to launch his raid against Carnmel Castle tonight. Likewise, he wishes you to depart the camp at once and not wait until dawn."

Hugh nodded. "I am ready to leave, my lady."

Princess Karena placed a hand on his arm to still him a moment. "There is... something else. I fear to tell you of this, but it is my duty, and I must." She looked away for a moment, and then fixed her dazzling green eyes upon him. "The King cannot allow Hurstwood to bolster the Usurper's armies. Naturally, he wishes for Sophie's rescue, but if the endeavour is uncertain he has decreed she must be slain. We cannot allow the Usurper to extort Hurstwood's allegiance."

Hugh stared at her. "My lady, the King seemed most intent on the rescue of his bride-to-be earlier today. A moment to speak with him would be most welcome."

Princess Karena shook her head. "Alas, the King has already left to assault Carnmel Castle. Take heart, Sir Hugh. If any man can save her, it is you."
A Thousand Cheers

Ink glistened on the tip of his quill but try as he might no words would come. Stephen sat and stared at the empty page. His cousin was poisoned and unconscious, and even worse was the threat of Karena to force him into marriage. It was a far cry from years gone by when she had recoiled in disgust from her uncle's attempts to impose wedlock upon her. Both men to whom she had been betrothed had been keen, of course, for she was a royal beauty. But when the first had died in a fire and the second had been mauled to death by a wild beast whilst visiting the Mere, the omens were plain. The Duke of Esden had ceded, for a time at least, and no more were presented to her for marriage.

Becoming ruler of Denland was a prospect bad enough to make Stephen's innards revolt. The blame would be his for the kingdom's ills, yet power would rest in Karena's hands. It would be better for both of them if she had been born a man and could take the throne on her own account. Of course, he mused, setting aside the quill and sipping his small beer, if she had been born a man she would be King of Denland instead of William.

Hinges creaked and floorboards groaned as Emma approached, bearing a tray of meat and vegetables. Stephen bowed his head to her in thanks, and cursed his laxness. He had meant to finish a preliminary array of hand signs with which to converse with her, but the night's events had driven all such thoughts from him.

"Take a seat," he said.

Emma sat on a chair beside him. Stephen stared into her brown eyes and took a deep breath.

"A terrible ill has befallen the King. He was poisoned by a traitor. Catherine seems to think he will recover, but if not... I will become King Stephen." He shook his head. "The royal cause hangs by a thread. My cousin is young but has fought in war before and the men entrust their lives to him. They would not do the same for me, and nor should they. If he dies I imagine Karena and I would be taken captive and sold to the Duke of Esden before William's body grew cold."

Emma got out of her chair, went down on her knees and hugged him. He felt blood reddening his cheeks. She released him from her embrace, and tapped the tray, which he had not disturbed.

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry."

Emma tapped the tray again, and when he began to repeat himself she picked up a lamb chop and handed it to him. He started protesting, and she mimed eating.

"I'm not an idiot," Stephen said gently.

She raised an eyebrow, and waited until he was eating before leaving him. Stephen watched her walk away, and they shared a smile as she closed the door.

***

The night was Karena's friend. For all William's foolhardiness, his decision to force the gates at night would make her task far easier. The armour she wore covered her from head to toe, and nobody would get a good enough look to notice that the supposed King had become rather slender. To avoid the telltale glint of moonlight on metal the armour she wore was leather instead of steel, lightening the burden a little more. Likewise, scaling the sheer mountainsides that rose either side of Carnmel Castle meant her only weapon would be a short sword.

Gorhelga's gaze darted this way and that, and she prowled around her mistress. The lynx had watched Karena with interest as she donned the unusual leather garments and hid her face behind a helmet. When Karena moved to leave her brother's tent the cat had sought to follow her.

"Wait here, Gorhelga," she ordered.

The lynx cocked her head quizzically, but obeyed.

"I wish I could take her with me," Karena told Sir Horace.

Catherine was sat in a chair by William's bedside, but other than her they were alone.

"As do I," Sir Horace replied. "But you might as well take your helmet off. If anyone saw your cat trotting along at your heels even the dullest of wits would realise something was wrong." The knight sighed. "You need not do this. The Hollow Knights are peerless warriors, and quite capable of opening the gates alone."

"The King has said he would lead the attack. The only thing worse than a bloody stupid plan is to make it and then let cowardice force you to change. That is how the army would see it. The Hollow Knights would only listen to myself or Stephen, and I have more chance of becoming Queen of Felaria than that insipid fool has of growing a backbone."

Horace smiled, and bowed his head. "Divine bless you and keep you safe, my lady."

Karena began to curtsey, but caught herself and bowed as a man would. "I shall see you before dawn, Sir Horace."

Simon Waldean was waiting outside for her. After much discussion she had deemed it necessary to let the Earl know the truth. He would lead the army's charge through the open gates, meet with Karena briefly and then return with his apparent lord and master back to William's own tent. For a day or two the King's feeble state could be kept secret, but she knew doing so without the collusion of Simon would be impossible.

"You look the part," Simon muttered. It was the dead of night, and a few yards away twenty Hollow Knights waited to join her. In the darkness behind them hundreds of soldiers were moving as silently as ghosts. They were picked men, the army's elite who would charge through the open gates to claim Carnmel Castle. Several of them glanced her way. "How're you feeling?"

"Apprehensive. And excited."

A broad grin spread across the fat Earl's face and he slapped her on the shoulder so hard he almost knocked her off balance. "Some men say that bloodletting's better than bedding the most beautiful of women."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Gods be thanked we've got you on hand to lead the soulless in your brother's absence. Divine willing, you'll know the joy of triumph before the sun rises."

She smiled at his words, knowing her leather helmet masked it. "Get the army ready, Lord Waldean. I mean to enjoy tonight."

Simon nodded and strode away to do his duty. Karena walked to the Hollow Knights, keen to begin the climb. The short sword was sheathed upon her back to avoid it clanging loudly on the stony mountainside. It was not especially heavy, but felt peculiar.

The Hollow Knights had not removed their enchanted armour, and had instead hidden the metal beneath surcoats, cloth sleeves and hoods.

"You look like Kuhrisch savages," Karena told the nearest knight, pointing at what appeared to be barbarian trousers.

"And you look most regal," Sir Emyr answered her in his lilting Artheniganwyr accent.

She looked at the fortress. Four towers loomed above the road, two flanking the gate and two at the ends of the wall. On each tower a brazier blazed in the darkness. A sentry was patrolling the wall, his torch flaring into life and dying to darkness as he passed the battlements.

"How many will be on the wall?" she asked.

Sir Emyr was silent a moment. "The castle houses two hundred. If Sir Douglas is wise he will have at least a score, and probably twice that, manning the easterly wall."

"And if he is foolish?"

"Six, and four of them will be asleep."

Karena laughed, and wondered whether the Hollow Knight had meant to tell a joke. Before she could ask him the other knights joined them.

"I shall lead," Sir Ambrose declared. "Sir Emyr will keep you safe, my lady."

The need for stealth demanded that they begin their climb a lot further from the walls than Karena had imagined. The Hollow Knights trained for years before they underwent the ceremony of sanctification, and every day afterwards. Tearing the soul from their bodies inured them to physical labour, and though their bodies bled as any other man's their strength never flagged. She was suddenly aware that even before she faced the possibility of combat there was every chance, wearing armour and climbing in darkness, she could lose her grip and tumble to her death.

That was the sort of craven thought that would slither out of Stephen's mouth. Karena curled her lip at betraying her royal blood with cowardice, and took her first handhold on the mountain. There was barely any soil to speak of amidst the stone. It was all sharp angles and cold stone, and she was grateful the leather gauntlets she wore were thick enough to protect her fingers.

Sir Ambrose and most of the Hollow Knights were ahead of her, moving with uncanny certainty. The moon and stars offered more illumination than Karena had hoped for, and she followed their path with increasing confidence. Cold was banished by the excitement coursing through her veins, and she glanced downwards.

Carnmel Castle was below her, but still a hundred yards or more away. Several men were gathered around the nearest brazier, warming their hands. Beyond the wall there were few flames. If they could claim the gates a swift victory could be hers.

The Hollow Knights moved quickly, and Karena started to struggle to keep pace. Her fingers and shoulders burned with the effort. When a small outcrop offered the chance to rest she seized it, glad for the opportunity to stand without her arms bearing her weight.

Those ahead of her did not look back. Gritting her teeth, she abandoned the outcrop and followed until she halted, perplexed. There were stones jutting like teeth for her hands, but nowhere for her feet.

Karena looked back at Emyr, and gestured. The knight tapped one forearm, and then the other. Karena cursed Nick Highford under her breath. She reached out and grasped the first handhold tentatively. It had taken the weight of a tall, strong man in armour but she still tested it before trusting the handhold with her life. Her feet lingered upon the outcrop, before she reached out and took the second handhold. Beneath her dangling legs was a drop of perhaps seventy feet.

Karena gripped the jutting stone with all her strength, and reached out three feet for the next. Fire raged in her shoulders, but determination lent her strength. If her brother died the royal house could not depend on the likes of Stephen to defend it, and if he lived victory was essential. Karena's right hand joined her left, and her shoulder screamed with pain as it bore her whole weight. There was just one more tooth of stone to seize before she could stand upon an outcrop and her arms and shoulders would know blessed relief. She reached out, and missed it. Her fingers started to slide from the stone she was gripping, and her left hand frantically scrabbled for purchase. Blood thundered in her chest and even the pain in her shoulders was momentarily eclipsed by panic.

Karena got a better grip with her right hand, and grasped the further tooth with her left. Relief flooded her, but she still had to reach the outcrop. Karena stretched for the handhold, but it was a hand's span too distant. She shifted her grip on the tooth and reached out again. By a finger's width she was unable to reach. Frustration boiled within her and she held out her hand a third time, only for a Hollow Knight to seize her wrist and lift her over to the outcrop. It was so sudden she almost let out a cry, and when her feet were upon the stone and able to bear her weight she sighed with relief. The knight had picked her up with one hand and seemingly no effort, and she nodded thanks for his aid.

The rest of the way was easier, and she soon had to stop. The Hollow Knights were clinging to the mountainside directly above the northern tower, a string of armoured gargoyles preparing themselves to strike. Sir Ambrose had halted the advance until the very last soldier was in place.

Something tapped Karena on the shoulder and she jumped. She glanced behind at the knight who had done it, and realised it was a sign the final man was in position. She tapped the knight ahead of her, who did likewise until Ambrose received a touch on his shoulder.

Thirty feet still separated them from the tower's summit, but Ambrose did not move. Time passed, and she wondered what he was waiting for. Karena used the unexpected wait to stare at the probable path down the mountain, the lower reaches of which were weakly illuminated by the tower's brazier. It did not seem especially arduous, but once the castle's garrison saw them arrows would pick them off. Or perhaps the scorpions mounted on the castle wall would swivel enough to be used against them.

It was the sentry. He was nearing the northern tower, and she realised Ambrose wanted him to be as far away as possible. The night was still, and she listened to the patrolling sentry wag chins with the dozen or so men clustered around the brazier. After warming his hands by the fire, the sentry turned about and started walking back along the wall.

Soon. Ambrose would lead the way soon. Gods, the anticipation thrilled her. In moments she would be charging into battle, and those traitorous dogs would be put to the sword. Men had died before at her calculating command, but this was something new, something intoxicating.

The sentry was ten feet from the nearest tower, and she willed him to hurry. He reached the battlements over the gate, and still Ambrose did not move. Karena mouthed silent prayers to Vespasian and Belisarius to ensure their victory, and a briefer prayer to Zenobia for her brother's sake. Halfway through her prayer to the Divine, Ambrose began creeping down. For a moment he moved silent and unseen, followed closely by his fellows. One of the garrison caught sight of him and shouted the alarm.

Ambrose and the two knights behind him leapt twenty feet down to the tower. Karena yearned to watch them, but forced her eyes to the handholds. Behind, she heard grunts of pain and the dull thud of bodies fallen from the wall landing far below. An arrow clattered above her head. Another plunged into the helmet of the knight below her, and he crashed lifelessly down to the tower.

Karena looked down. Three knights awaited her, but the rest were putting the garrison to the sword. A few Hollow Knights lay sleeping the eternal sleep, but for every one of them four defenders had died. Limbs had been hacked off and bodies run through with broadswords. The air was thick with the burning wood of the brazier and hot blood.

Karena jumped down, knees bending with the strain of landing. She unsheathed her sword and ran after Sir Ambrose and the other knights. Three of the towers were in their hands, and, though she saw men pouring from the buildings in the courtyard, the Hollow Knights were already raising the portcullis and opening the gate. Beyond the wall she heard a thousand men, led by Simon Waldean, charging the gate.

When Karena reached the final tower four Hollow Knights were fighting twice their number. A stubble-faced man thrust his spear at one of the Hollow Knights. His spearhead pierced the knight's armour, and he buckled to one knee. The knight lashed out with his sword, and the defender abandoned his spear to jump back. He saw her, wearing a man's armour and holding a sword, and fell to his knees, hands clasped in supplication.

He tried to beg for mercy and Karena thrust her sword into his open mouth. The blade cut his tongue off and its tip pierced the back of his neck. Blood gushed from his jaws and ran down his lips and chin. The mist of his final breaths was red. Karena placed a boot on his chest and pulled her sword free.

Silence. In the time she had killed him the army had flooded into the castle, and Sir Douglas had surrendered. Karena peered down at the courtyard, where the garrison was being disarmed.

"The castle is yours, Your Grace!" Simon Waldean shouted up at her.

Every eye was on her. Karena raised her bloody sword to the stars, and a thousand cheers roared in her ears.

***

It felt odd to remove her armour, discard her sword and return to the elegant dresses worthy of a princess. Secrecy demanded that Karena change swiftly, without handmaidens in attendance. Instead, she had Catherine dress her in the royal tent.

"How is the King?" Karena asked whilst the apothecary laced up her dress.

"Better than I had dared hope," Catherine answered. "I did not know whether he would live or die, and expected a prolonged convalescence, yet he awoke briefly after you left. His wits are intact, and he managed to eat a little."

Karena smiled. "He is a Penmere. The Esdens learnt long ago we are hard to kill."

"Lady Jane Falchester called whilst you were away," Catherine said as she finished tightening the dress' laces.

"I take it the Hollow Knights turned her back?"

The apothecary nodded. "She was none too pleased."

A second smile brightened Karena's face. "Dogs often whine when left in the rain outside their master's home."

William awoke again. His legs shook but bore his weight for a while, until Catherine sternly commanded him to lie down.

"Such a sharp tongue. Perhaps I should marry _you_ instead of Sophie," the King suggested as he lay back down.

Catherine's eyes widened in surprise, and the apothecary left his side to fetch some food.

"I am glad you are in good heart. It is fitting, for tonight you won a great victory," Karena told her brother.

William grunted. "I am a fortunate man to have a sister with the heart of a dragon. You were not hurt?"

"I was not." Karena eased into a chair by his bedside. The thrill of battle had left her body, leaving behind exhaustion, aches and pains. Yet none of it could diminish the elation she had felt. "We lost five Hollow Knights and a handful of soldiers in the moments before Sir Douglas surrendered."

Catherine came back with a little weak wine and some bread. William ate a few mouthfuls before retching and almost returning the food to his plate.

"A rumour has been spread that you are to spend the day in thankful prayer to the Divine for the victory, and contemplating what to do with Sir Douglas and the garrison," Karena said. "Beyond that it might be hard to hide your weakness."

Catherine said, "You may not need to. I was surprised you awoke tonight, Your Grace, and you may well be hale enough to ride soon, though a full recovery will take some time."

William nodded. "Good. Karena, I'm proud of you. Go and get some rest. On the morrow we need to decide how to deal with the traitors."

***

The sun was bright, and the white dragon of Penmere fluttered above Carnmel Castle. Karena walked the battlements of the eastern wall, Gorhelga and Sir Horace trailing behind her. All the bodies were gone, but the signs of battle lingered. Blood darkened the wall and fresh scars had been cut into the stone by errant blows. The men guarding the battlements were all from the House of Penmere, and bowed as she passed.

The camp was spread below. A handful of the most important men had taken quarters in the castle, as she had herself, but almost the whole army remained encamped outside the walls. The banners of Trewithiel, Harcester and Longcove fluttered alongside those of Waldean and Penmere. Thousands upon thousands of men, marching into the steel jaws of battle for her brother. And yet, the Duke of Esden could call on far, far more.

"Have you ever seen a man killed by a scorpion?" Karena asked, running her fingers over one of the strange wooden contraptions on the wall. It was a mixture of a bow and catapult, too large to be used by a man unless mounted in place.

Horace grunted. "The Kuhrisch made it to the gates of Falchester ten years ago. Most died at the hands of magistri and golems, but some were felled by scorpions. The bolts they shoot can go through two or three men, and punch through steel as if it were parchment."

Gorhelga purred, and Karena turned to see that Baldwin Mallen was strolling towards her.

"Good morning, my lady," he greeted her. "The King requests your presence. He is to decide how to deal with Sir Douglas and the garrison."

Karena followed him down the steps to the courtyard, and into the two-storey stone structure that served as the castellan's quarters. She had Sir Horace wait in the entrance hall. Baldwin walked slowly, and she was uncertain whether the wooden stairs or his knees creaked the more. He led her to the dining room, and she found most of the seats occupied. The King sat at the head of the table, Sir Ambrose stood behind him and the Earl of Waldean sat on his right. Lord Longcove and the scions of Harcester and Trewithiel were present on his left, as was Lucien Mercator. Sat beside Simon Waldean was Jane Falchester. Baldwin gestured for her to sit beside the harlot. Karena ignored him and strode down to Giles Longcove, sat upon the King's left.

"Baron Longcove, you are kind to keep my seat warm," she told him, looking into his eyes and smiling. She looked over his head, down the table to Lucien Mercator. "Make room, s'il vous plaît."

The Felarian obediently moved his posterior down a seat, and the noblemen did likewise, vacating the chair Longcove had occupied. Karena sat down and smiled at her brother, who sighed. William appeared better than she had expected, and had been well enough to ride to his quarters within the castle in the early hours of the day.

"Sir Douglas and the garrison of Carnmel Castle broke their oaths to their liege lord, and to their king," William stated. "Sir Douglas must die. It was his command, and he was my own vassal. What say you of the rest?"

Karena kept her counsel, and listened. Trewithiel vividly recalled the fate of the city's lord and his family, and argued treasonous peasants had no right to expect more mercy than rebellious nobles. Longcove suggested pairing the men off to fight one another, and allowing the victors to reaffirm their vow of fealty. Simon Waldean was the only man who surprised her. The belligerent glutton argued for clemency.

"If every man knows they face death upon surrender, not a man will surrender to you ever again," Simon told the King. "Show mercy, and you will bolster the army. And when next we fight, the enemy may turn their coats, knowing an embrace and not a noose awaits them."

Baldwin nodded his agreement. "You have proven your valour and boldness, Your Grace. Now let the kingdom know your kindness."

"Soft words from a soft man," Lucien opined. "These men took up arms to kill their king. Perhaps that is a crime the kindly Dennish would forgive. The House of Belois would not."

A low murmur of discontent arose at the Felarian's words, but it hushed when Jane spoke.

"Your Grace, I am unfamiliar with the ways of kingship, but surely Lucien is right? What crime is more unforgivable than treason? And what if the Duke of Esden laid down his sword? Would you forgive him and his sons? A king must be kind and gentle with his people, and ruthless to his enemies. Let the minstrels sing that at Carnmel Castle two hundred men rebelled, and two hundred men hanged. Those who flock to the Usurper's banner out of the false belief it is a safe haven may reconsider when they realise the Dragon of Penmere has claws, and the will to use them."

William's face was an emotionless mask. Whether he was suppressing the pain and weakness of the poison, or smothering his feelings to present the nobles an impassive countenance, Karena did not know.

"Sister, you alone have been silent. What say you?"

Karena pretended to consider her thoughts for a moment. "Fear and love have been offered as grounds for execution and pardon. Lords have betrayed you for the Duke of Esden out of fear. Nobody loves the pious, grey creature squatting in his distant tower. They are afraid. Afraid you are young, too much boy and not enough man. Afraid too that the Duke and his sons will claim inevitable victory, and siding with you will be writing their own death warrants. You offered these men and their commander the opportunity for clemency. When they were behind tall stone walls they did not want your mercy. It appealed to them only when they were on their knees with no other hope for life. The Kingdom of Denland needs a strong king. Death is the only reward fit for treachery."

The King was silent for a moment, but she knew what he would say.

"Lord Mallen, have the prisoners assembled under heavy guard. Lord Waldean, find as much rope as you can and divide it between the eastern and western walls."

Sir Douglas hanged with the rest. He had begged for the lives of his men, but the King was deaf to his pleas.

One hundred men dangled from each wall. Some broke their necks and were gifted a quick death. Others choked as the pitiless rope bit into their throats and strangled the breath from their lungs. They twitched and jerked, and soiled their hose. Beneath them, the King's army jeered their merry dancing, and raised their cups to their lord.
Uninvited Guests

The crows were many. They hopped onto the treats of flesh that dangled from the walls and tore at the dead men. Now and then the soldiers, still camped outside Carnmel Castle, loosed an arrow or two at the crows, not out of sympathy for the dead but to add a little variety to their diet. Karena strolled along the western wall, admiring the view. The White Stag Mountains were as beautiful and austere as a youthful widow.

"How many men will we get from Caer Seren?" she asked Sir Horace.

The knight shrugged. "Perhaps a few thousand, at best."

Not enough to make a difference against the men the Duke of Esden could muster, she thought. At least, not in open battle. The Duke had more men and more money to hire mercenaries, but not all the advantages lay in his treacherous hands. Penmere itself was nigh on impregnable, its fleet was unrivalled and the west was guarded by the high peaks and narrow passes of the White Stag Mountains. A few victories in Norshire, after reclaiming Carnmel Castle, could persuade the kingdom it was not a hopeless fight after all.

"But they're a pain in the arse to fight," Horace added.

Karena raised a slender eyebrow. "How so?"

The knight pointed at the steep slopes of distant mountains. "They farm sheep on hillsides. To keep them from straying they use slings, and use them well. Many a man has laughed at a slinger, but once you've been hit in the face with a lead bullet you'll never laugh at anything again. They're small, so you can't even see the damned things coming."

She nodded, and asked Horace, "How do you know that? I can't remember you fighting against them."

"My grandfather was on Esden's side in the last war. He told me tales when I was a boy."

Karena's reply was forestalled by the pounding of turnshoes on stone as a messenger boy sprinted towards her. The youth, not old enough to shave, bowed before her.

"Begging your pardon, my lady, but the King requests your presence in his chambers."

Karena dismissed the boy and walked towards the King's chambers, leaving Sir Horace outside. The King was sat alone at his table, upon which two golden goblets of wine awaited her arrival. She was pleased to see he had finally wielded a razor and dispatched the failure of a beard he had been attempting to cultivate. Her brother handed a goblet to her and then raised his in a toast.

"To the death of the Duke of Esden," he proclaimed. "May the Divine drown the bastard in his own blood."

Karena drank to that, and put down her mostly full goblet. "I thought we might be making ready to march today. It doesn't take much bad weather to seal the passes at Rhudd Carreg or Halen Tor and, if you're as well as you seem, we should make haste."

William smiled. "I've lost my appetite, and whilst my wits are intact my legs tremble after a few steps. More importantly, Lord Farrington sent a bird, which arrived early this morning. Fresh soldiers have arrived from Waldean, and now that much of the harvest is gathered he's managed to muster some more men himself. I think it would be best if you returned to Penmere to bring the reinforcements here."

Karena's red reflection stared back at her as she gazed into her wine. "Soldiers may not be the cleverest of animals, but I suspect even they would manage to follow a long road west. Just send a bird back telling them to march."

Her brother sighed. "Would that it were so simple. There are more delicate matters involved. I need more Hollow Knights, but the only man who can enact the sanctification is the Patriarch. You proved quite adept at encouraging him to conduct the coronation, so you seem the natural choice. Besides, there are rumours the Duke has sent an army north. We have had no word from the Vinefort or Whitecastle but I need someone there who has the wits to take account of unexpected circumstance." William finished off his goblet of wine and sighed. "Sadly, I am not inundated with such people."

Karena scowled. "Seymour Farrington is a capable man–"

"He cannot leave Penmere," William interrupted. "Farrington is there to keep the city in order. If soldiers need sending to the castles or bringing back here I need someone else to do that, and the only person who can do such a thing and bring the Patriarch to heel is you."

Karena was silent for a moment. "The Ritual of Sanctification is a holy rite. Using it to bolster your army would be a direct intervention in the war, to our advantage. More than that, it would directly contravene the Aurelic Law. The Patriarch may well refuse. Clerics tend to dislike angering the gods. Or incurring the wrath of Aurelian."

"I have faith in your persuasive abilities, sister."

She drank a little more wine, and scratched Gorhelga behind the ears. "Simon Waldean or Baldwin Mallen would be just as capable. But neither of them are quite so despised by the venomous snake from Falchester. Dare I ask if dear, sweet Jane suggested this?"

He answered her with silence.

"This is damned silly," Karena said. "To appease your bed-warmer you're going to have the army stew here for weeks whilst I traipse east and west, pausing only to threaten the kingdom's highest priest. Send a bird to Penmere, leave a strong garrison here and take the army west to Caer Seren before winter closes our path south."

William smiled at her. "Do not indulge my brotherly love quite so much, Karena. I am still your king, and it would behove you well to remember that. Jane did suggest this, but it was a good suggestion. I have been fortunate to escape a poisoned end, but I still feel the effects of the venom. Catherine claims it will be a few days before I am well enough to ride again. Sending you east provides the perfect pretext for keeping the army here and grants me precious days to recover. Besides, if we enter Norshire and winter closes the passes then we will be without reinforcements. Better to arrive there in spring, and in strength, than early and weak. We both know Waldean does not have the subtlety or Mallen the spine to make the Patriarch bend to our will. Take half a dozen Hollow Knights and a score of good men, and leave at once."

Karena rose to her feet and curtseyed. "At once, Your Grace." She walked to the door, and looked back. "Do try not to be murdered whilst I'm gone. The gods alone know how our dear cousin would cope."

She strode from the room, Gorhelga at her heels and fury in her heart.

***

It was a surprisingly bright morning in the mountains. Carnmel Castle was bathed in sunshine, the fiery orb blazing in a cloudless sky. The faintest of zephyrs stirred the pennants and banners that rose from the grander tents of the army. The clang of smiths' hammers and the clashing blades of fencing soldiers rang out, making Jane's head ache.

"Karena was right," William said, leaning on the battlements and casting his eye over his army. "It would be better to march. The Hykirs have tied down the Usurper's armies, and presented us with a unique window of opportunity. The longer we linger here, the smaller the chance we can seize the offensive in Norshire."

Jane leant on the stonework and smiled up at him. Despite his youth, the King was almost half a foot taller than her, and still growing. "Your apothecary left you in no doubt, Your Grace. A small period of rest, to allow your body to recuperate, is essential. Besides, it affords the advantage of bolstering the army yet further when your beloved sister returns with reinforcements."

A flicker of mirth crossed his face at Jane's description of Karena.

Sending the witch east had been a sweet success, embittered only by the knowledge her future sister-in-law would come back in a few days. Once Sophie was chained by marriage to the House of Esden, as Jane's father had assured her would happen before the year's end, the King would be in need of a bride. The last letter she had received from home indicated that John Esden would wait until after the Hykirs were dealt with before marrying his noble captive off to one of his sons. Until then, Jane was to keep the King's passion simmering, bringing it only to the boil once Sophie had been disposed of.

Jane held out her arm, the sun warm on her naked skin. "Your Grace, would you favour me with a stroll?"

Together, they wandered arm-in-arm along the eastern wall. Jane kept her paces short and slow, not wanting to over-exert him. Despite the poison, he seemed spry, but she was cautious by nature. It was a good sign that William trusted her enough to divulge the secret of the assassination attempt, and his own weakness.

The handful of soldiers standing guard on the wall saluted and bowed their heads as their lord passed them by. Before and behind them walked several Hollow Knights, armour glinting in the sun, and soldiers from the King's own guard, wearing black surcoats upon which the white dragon of Penmere was emblazoned.

"I feel almost like a queen having such an escort," Jane remarked.

William glanced down at her. "As well you should. It's tedious but necessary to have so many guards. Men expect their masters to have a fitting escort of warriors. Perhaps I should assign a few to you."

"Wouldn't that irritate your darling sister, Your Grace?" she asked.

William laughed. "Undoubtedly, but there are other good reasons for giving you some soldiers. Providing you with a guard of honour would not only help protect you from harm, but signal to the army and the world my intentions."

The breeze strengthened, and Jane brushed a lock of brown hair away from her eyes. "Oh? And what intentions might these be, Your Grace?"

"A king needs a queen. If Falshire joined the royal side in this war, Esden would face danger a few days to the north. And your father has quite the army."

Jane rested her head on his shoulder. "As well he might. Having Felarians to the west and Kuhrisch to the north encourages men to keep their steel sharp and plentiful. Perhaps Karena should be pledged to my brother?"

William grunted. "I think not. Unless this is a subtle plan to get rid of an ill-favoured sibling it would be best left undone."

"My liege," Sir Ambrose interrupted, pointing at the sky. "Look."

Jane followed the knight's outstretched arm. At first it eluded her, but then she set eyes on the approaching bird.

"A black eagle?" she guessed. They were rare in these parts. The bird grew larger and larger, yet remained far away.

"That's no eagle," William whispered.

All around her, men were turning to stare at the sky, the winged beast coming closer, and closer. It was a sight that had not been seen in Denland for decades, though all knew the tales of the man who had put the world on its knees and then relinquished his grasp on supreme power almost the moment it was his. Several of the guards went down on their knees. In the camp, the hammers fell silent and the sparring had ceased. Whispered prayers came to her ears, and as the dragon approached uncertain silence crushed even religious murmuring.

Aurelian, mortal frame occupied by the souls of a man and a grand dragon, roared. Deafening thunder tore apart the sky. Jane clamped her hands to her ears to try and diminish the terrible cry. The magister deorum was vaster than she could ever have imagined. When he sailed through the heavenly sea his beating wings conjured a gust that made men shiver and their skin pale. She stared, as the King and every other man in the army stared. Aurelian's passing blotted out the sun, and the camp fell into darkness. He flew east, towards Penmere, and the castle was bathed in golden light once more. Jane kept her eyes on the creature some men claimed was a god, the Last Divine. Aurelian was a speck on the horizon before any man dared so much as murmur.

***

The ride east was as swift as Karena could make it. Before leaving Carnmel Castle she had sent a bird to Penmere, informing Lord Farrington to ready the reinforcements to leave at short notice. She chose to skirt around Harcester instead of entering the city, where protocol would have demanded a tawdry sequence of formal greetings, a feast and, doubtlessly, an overnight stay. She did not have so much time she could afford to fritter it away on tedious banqueting.

Thoughts of Jane preyed upon her mind. Karena was disappointed in her brother. A beautiful, willing woman would attract the attention of any man, but Karena had not expected Jane to sink her claws into William quite so deeply. Lord Falchester had not yet declared his allegiance, and the family was notoriously devious, so she understood why her brother would not dismiss Jane out of hand. Nevertheless, he had been foolhardy to take a snake into his bed.

It was strangely exhilarating to race eastwards as fast as her horse could stand. Gorhelga was thrilled by the rapid pace, and the soldiers accompanying her were delighted when the lynx dragged a dead cow to camp one night. Once the predator had eaten her fill the men had cooked the remainder and enjoyed a hearty supper of fresh beef.

At Karena's command, they rode from dawn till dusk, resting only for a few brief hours each night. A day past Harcester, the sun had fallen beneath the western horizon and the lingering memory of its light was fading fast. She continued riding, hoping by the long days to shorten her journey by one or perhaps two days.

Gorhelga growled, and ran forward into the darkness. The soldiers wagered on what the lynx would bring back. They bet on a cow, a goat, a pig or a sheep. But none of them collected any winnings.

The giant cat returned, clutching a heavy prize in her jaws. It was a man with a chainmail hauberk and a surcoat bearing Beckworth's crest. Gorhelga dropped the corpse in the middle of the camp. Several soldiers leapt from their horses and drew their swords. Karena took her horse nearer to inspect the trophy herself.

"By the gods! Your lynx has killed one of the southern curs," a soldier exclaimed.

Sir Horace sighed. "Use your damned eyes, boy. Do you think the cat's taken up archery?" The knight pointed at a single hole the size of a sixpence that had been punched through the middle of the corpse's chest, though there was no arrow to be found.

Gorhelga looked at Karena, and then turned around and padded off into the darkness a second time. For a moment Karena hesitated, but her trust in the lynx was greater than her fear of the unknown and she urged her horse to follow. The soldiers mounted their own steeds and rode alongside her.

"We should seek refuge in Harcester," Sir Horace advised. "We don't know how many of the enemy there are, nor who killed them."

"And so we shall find out," Karena replied. "Gorhelga is no fool. She would not return to danger, let alone lead me into it."

The Beckworth corpse was not alone. Starlight offered enough illumination for her to make out another body upon the grassy ground. And then more. The soldiers lit torches to better see how many there were, and found hundreds of dead bodies. Every one was an ally of Esden, and they had all been shot. Glimmering torchlight illuminated movement in the distance.

Sir Horace moved in front of her and unsheathed his sword. "Who goes there? Friend, or foe?" he called.

More soldiers joined Horace and bared their steel, though the Hollow Knights remained by her side. The distant figures did not answer, and slowly walked towards the soldiers. They were tall, and Karena feared they were Kuhrisch, but when they came nearer she realised they were Fettered. There were at least a hundred of them.

Each had dark, gnarled skin, as grey and hard as stone. Two short tusks grew either side of their small mouths. The hornskins wore loose-fitting white woollen tunics, but their arms and legs, hands and feet were bare. Black claws curved from their fingers and toes. All of them had enormous longbows in their hands, and quivers laden with arrows dangled from their belts.

The nearest one sniffed the air with its short, flat nose. "Friend," it answered in a voice full of depth and empty of emotion.

Sir Horace lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it.

"Who are you, and what happened here?" Karena asked.

The hornskin cocked its head and looked at her, like a dog trying to understand an unfamiliar command. It waved a long-fingered hand, and the other Fettered turned around and started searching the corpses to retrieve arrows and anything else they might want.

"Coldsun," it said, taking a loping stride forward. Its pungent aroma evoked a cacophony of cursing from the soldiers. "The Fettered sailed north to join Penmere. Outside Whitecastle an army from Esden was seen. The Fettered landed half their ships to make war. In the darkness, the den'sokoth see poorly. The Fettered fed the earth blood and flesh, and hunted those who escaped. The Fettered caught those who escaped," Coldsun explained, gesturing at the numerous corpses scattered upon the ground.

Karena smiled, though she was unsure whether the hornskin would recognise or understand the expression. "I am Princess Karena, elder sister to the King. The House of Penmere is glad of your loyalty, and grateful for your service."

Coldsun sniffed the air again, and grunted. "The Fettered know of you, sister of the King."

"How many ships sailed north?" Sir Horace asked.

"Forty," Coldsun answered. It turned away and began searching the corpses for anything of use.

Sir Horace's horse trotted beside her own. "My lady," he murmured, "the entire Fettered Isles fleet has come north."

"How many men?"

"None," he answered. "But if you mean hornskins, thousands."

The hornskins had killed indiscriminately, slaughtering common folk and wealthy lords without a thought for ransom or surrender. Even though Karena had little time to spend, she insisted on being shown to the battlefield. Despite first encountering the Esden army near the coast, the hornskins had chased them inland for a day and a half and most of the bodies were near the road to Penmere. The Fettered could furnish her with no details as to the army's leader, and she was keen to discover who had held the command.

"How many were there?" Horace asked Coldsun.

"Many."

Horace sighed.

Karena smiled. "Could you be a little more precise?"

"Very many."

It was not far to the battlefield. Apart from the hornskins that had accompanied her, there were none present. Upon asking, Coldsun revealed they were eating in the forest, as they had gone without food since setting sail.

The hornskin had not exaggerated. The ground could barely be seen beneath the myriad corpses. Almost all had puncture wounds where arrows had pierced their bodies. She saw a corpse wearing plate armour, a gaping wound in the middle of its chest.

"Your spears must be well-forged to get through plate, mail and an aketon," Horace commented.

"It was not a spear. We do not fight like you," Coldsun answered. "If we cannot kill with arrows, we seize the enemy and impale them with our tusks." The hornskin stepped towards Horace and lightly tapped the left side of the knight's chest. "When the heart stops, life ends."

Karena knelt by the fallen soldier. His armour was indicative of wealth and power, and she was curious as to his identity. The surcoat was of Beckworth, and she hoped it was the Marquess himself. She raised the visor of his helmet and saw anguish etched upon a familiar face.

"The Marquess of Beckworth," she told Horace. "Dear old John will be heartbroken. Search!" she ordered the men. "We need to find if he or an Esden was in command, and if any of his sons were killed."

The soldiers spread out and began to examine the corpses wearing expensive armour. They filched purses and stole jewellery, but Karena did not care. If greed made them search faster then all the better.

Among the dead there were some Fettered, though they were few. Most had grievous wounds, and several had been hacked to pieces.

"Do you want your fallen to be buried, or burnt?" Karena asked Coldsun. "I'm unfamiliar with your customs."

It scratched a groove in its thick-skinned forearm with a claw. "Dead Fettered is not Fettered. Let the earth eat its fill of empty vessels."

She frowned. "I am sorry for your losses."

"Do not be. It is the way of mortals to die."

Thousands of men had been killed, but few of them could afford a wealthy man's armour, and it was still deepest night when her men reported they had found all the nobles worth the title. Beckworth's three eldest sons had been with him, and their neatly arrayed bodies made her smile.

"We'll take the Marquess with us to Penmere, for a public desecration," Karena decided. "The people will see the fate of traitors, high and low. As for his sons, strip them of their armour and burn the bodies. Let the House of Beckworth spend the next year wondering who their lord should be."

Before leaving the battlefield, Karena had a small trophy erected. A score of spears were planted in the ground, each angled a little differently to the last to form the shape of an hourglass of wood and metal. Around the middle of the spear shafts she had various shields from Esden, Beckworth and elsewhere hung. The most gruesome heads she had severed and impaled on spear points, with some of the finer helmets between them.

"I shall send word to Lord Farrington, to dispose of the bodies and claim the bounty of equipment the Duke of Esden has kindly sent us," Karena stated.

The Fettered were a strange folk. At her command Coldsun and its fellows travelled with her to Penmere, but they were incapable of moving any faster than a brisk march. Reluctantly, she left them behind and rode on ahead, only for the Fettered to enter the camp in the dead of night, and continue walking on without pausing for food or rest. The pattern repeated itself the following day, as she overtook the slow but steady hornskins only for them to lope into and out of the camp that same night.

When Karena passed them one was rubbing its tusks against a tree trunk. The tusks peeled away the bark, and once the trunk was bare the hornskin collected the scraps of bark and devoured them.

That night she ordered the Fettered to stop when they reached her camp. Penmere would be reached the next day, and she wanted to enter the city with the hornskins, even if that meant riding at walking pace in the morning. Some of her soldiers cast suspicious looks at the reeking, strange creatures. The Fettered stood a little way off from the campfires and tents, staring into the night.

"Won't you be sleeping tonight?" she asked Coldsun. Although the hornskins were almost indistinguishable from one another she had given it a silver swan amulet to spot Coldsun more easily.

The hornskin replied, "No. The Fettered do not sleep."

"Never?"

"The Fettered do not sleep."

Penmere rose from the cliffs like a blessed white paradise set above the violence of the sea and the filth of the earth. Returning to the Holy City made Karena feel a renewed hatred of the serpent from Falchester. All she had to do was send the Fettered west, collect whatever fresh men had come from the Mere and Waldean and do her best to bully the foremost cleric in two kingdoms into betraying his most sacred law.

"Don't get comfortable," she told the men. "We're only here for a day."
Knights of the Swan

Princess Karena had gotten barely a wink of sleep all night, but felt no worse for it. Whilst she had loathed being sent scurrying off east whilst her brother and his whore squatted in Carnmel Castle, it felt good to be back in Penmere. No other place was quite like it. Pure white stone, unsullied by the smallest speck of dirt, was ever present, and colossal statues loomed protectively over Penmere's people. Every other city was a feeble imitation, a squalid, filth-ridden miniature of the City of the Divine.

A little mountain of sealed letters bore testament to her nocturnal efficiency. Lord Seymour Farrington was a shrewd man and, after learning of her planned arrival, had left any fresh correspondence from friends and foes for Karena to address personally. It was mostly tidbits, a petty knight claiming an inability to deliver the men fealty demanded, a village begging aid to repair a bridge, but there were one or two succulent morsels to sink her teeth into.

Henry Esden had led his father's army to a great victory, rescuing Fenwick from the jaws of defeat. The south was not yet secure, and for that she thanked the Divine. The Hykirs would continue to threaten Fenshire, and would doubtlessly take a few more sizeable bites from the army of traitors.

More importantly, the Earl of Norcott had contemplated the proposed match, marrying his daughter into the royal family. The Earl was insistent upon the King himself as the groom. Happily, Sophie's continued survival meant Karena could argue a public announcement would have to wait until Sophie was dead or married to another. Divine willing, the royal army would be firmly encamped upon Norshire soil before Sophie died, and then the Earl would get what he was damned well given.

Someone knocked on the door. Karena finished scribbling a last line and set about sealing the letter before calling for him to enter.

"You work too hard," Lord Farrington told her. Age had greyed his hair and lined his face, but he was almost a foot taller than her and still looked like a man who could wrestle a wolf and end up on top.

"Someone has to make up for William's laggard ways."

The Law Lord pulled up a chair and sat down. "He marched west when barely able to sit atop a horse. You are too hard on him."

Karena smiled. "Of course I am. Baldwin scuttles around like a beetle eager to clear away what dung is flung his way, Simon Waldean does his best to ensure my brother remains blissfully unburdened by sobriety, and dear, sweet Jane is content to be the royal harlot. He has men enough to tend to his vices, and only me to foster his virtues." She sighed, regretting her intemperance. Seymour was unlikely to recite her utterances but that did nothing to expunge her ill-judgement. "Forgive me. I have been attending to royal business through the night. The King stormed Carnmel Castle with barely a casualty, and his Fettered allies crushed the rebel army sent north to besiege the Vinefort. It is a good start to the campaign. How do the Fettered fare?" she asked.

Seymour steepled his fingers. "Better than I had hoped. They are peculiar but arrived in the shadow of triumphant tidings. The people are happy to overlook their strangeness, especially as you have promised to take them away so swiftly."

Karena nodded, and was about to turn back to her letters when he handed over a scroll. The white wax seal of the Patriarch got her attention, and she opened it at once.

"Be careful, my lady," Seymour warned her. "Jeremiah is a man of meek peace, but a true believer. If you try to bend him to your will, you might find he would rather snap. The King would not thank you for provoking his excommunication."

Karena ran her eyes over the beautiful calligraphy of the scroll. The Patriarch would visit her later that morning.

"If he were then he would know that the King is ordained by the Divine. He would know that kidnapping and imprisoning the daughter of an Earl is a despicable crime, and that treason is an unforgivable sin. Jeremiah loves peace more than faith. Faith demands righteous anger when oaths of fealty are forsworn. The Patriarch is keen to take up the olive branch, but his grasp on the sword is frail."

Seymour smiled. "A man with a firm desire for the sword should wear armour, not a cassock. In any event, I bid you good fortune in your meeting with him."

"You will attend," Karena informed him. "After all, when I return west you will have to cope with the aftermath of the meeting."

***

Sir Horace looked terrible, Karena noted with pleasure. The knight rarely had time free from attending her, and she had wondered whether it was obedience or desire that had caused him to comply so fully with her order to enjoy himself. Pale skin, unshaven stubble and a brewery's bouquet suggested he had not forgotten the city's finer taverns. Despite the pounding head he almost certainly suffered, Horace stood as straight and silent as Sir Ambrose. More Hollow Knights were congregated outside the door, but she saw no reason to clutter the council chamber with silent men.

Lord Farrington arrived before the Patriarch. He stooped to enter without cracking his head on the lintel, bowed deeply to her and laughed at Horace's appearance.

"Someone indulged himself last night," Seymour said.

"Penmere is a fine city," Sir Horace murmured.

Seymour took a seat at Karena's side. "I take it the reinforcements are all in order?"

She nodded, running her fingers through her lynx's fur. "Most have already begun the march west. I shall take a small number as an honour guard. Samuel Killigrew is well?"

"Who?"

"The father of Catherine, William's apothecary. She saved his life a second time, when Nicholas Highford betrayed us."

"Ah," Seymour said, nodding. "Yes, the old man is well. He tried to refuse the gold and servants you commanded be his, but accepted eventually."

"Good. Tell him his daughter is a fine servant to the King, and a friend of his sister."

Seymour raised a bushy eyebrow, and nodded once more.

Two Hollow Knights strode into the council chamber and bowed their heads to her. "My lady, Patriarch Jeremiah is here," one of them stated.

Karena gestured for them to show the cleric in, and scratched Gorhelga under her chin. The lynx purred with delight, and was still purring when Jeremiah, clad in a simple purple cassock, shuffled into the chamber. Seymour rose to his feet and bowed before the Patriarch. Karena did not.

"Take a seat, Jeremiah," she instructed, looking at the empty chair to her left.

The Patriarch sat beside her, resting his hands on his lap, one atop the other. "I am surprised you had the time to see me, my lady, during your brief return to the City of the Divine."

"This meeting is the reason my dear brother decided it was best for me to come here," Karena confided. "The Hollow Knights are reduced by the ravages of war. The King requires more."

"I am sure that the Aurelic Palace will send as many Hollow Knights as the King requires," the Patriarch said.

"I am not speaking about dispatching those that remain," Karena replied. "We need more. Denland needs more. There has been a slaughter of these servants of the Divine in rebel cities. All the King seeks is to replenish their numbers to their natural strength, so that once order is restored each city can rest easy knowing that the faithful Knights watch over the mages and protect the people."

The Patriarch knitted his fingers together and sighed. "Would that happy peace once again descended upon our fair kingdom, my lady. If it were so, I would gladly sanctify more Hollow Knights and bolster their ranks as you ask. But if I do so now I will only be strengthening the King's army. The Aurelic Law is quite clear: the Church cannot become involved."

"Patriarch Jeremiah," Seymour spoke up, "that may be true. But let us suppose the war ends sooner than you think. The magistri enjoy the wisdom of centuries and realise the necessity of following Aurelian's doctrine, but the young are often headstrong. Without the Hollow Knights on hand to temper youthful rashness we risk not just a mundane but an arcane rebellion. And how much worse would it be if such terrible discord happened because of a decision you made?"

Karena suppressed a smile at the old man's cunning, and watched the Patriarch weigh up his words.

"I confess, that would be a burden on my soul. But I must bear the responsibility, if it comes to that. My lady, it gives me no pleasure to deny you. I wish this war had never started, and pray every day that it ends. I cannot muster men for your army. The Hollow Knights are a lynchpin between the Church, the arcane and temporal power. They cannot be created simply to tip the scales in a civil war."

Karena rested her head on one hand. "Always you speak of the Church's neutrality, and that the Hollow Knights cannot play a role, but I have not heard a single word uttered about the Usurper's treachery. He murdered hundreds of Hollow Knights, men who devoted their lives to standing watch over those touched by the Divine. Would you be so silent if he had slaughtered an army of priests?"

Jeremiah glared at her. "My lady, you are quite mistaken. Merely because I refuse to publicly denounce either side in this war does not mean I am unconcerned by what has happened. Should the House of Esden emerge triumphant, I can assure you that the Church will demand repentance for the sins committed against the servants of the Divine."

"I am sure the Duke of Esden trembles at the fearful prospect," Karena retorted. "In the meantime, he has murdered hundreds of faithful and skilled warriors and suffered a disgruntled letter from the Julian Palace in return. I'm afraid your narrow path of neutrality has reached its end. Begin the Ritual of Sanctification today, to bring the Hollow Knights back up to their ordained strength, or the Church will find itself supporting the royal army in other ways."

"I do not take kindly to threats, my–"

Karena interrupted, "You will do as your rightful monarch commands or your churches will be stripped of gold and silver finery, the jewel-encrusted raiment ripped from the priesthood and your lands confiscated and granted to men who understand the virtue of loyalty."

The Patriarch rose to his feet. "I will not."

Karena stood, and looked down upon the short, balding man. "Sir Horace, go and prepare a pyre for our holy friend. It seems he is keen to be embraced by the Divine sooner rather than later."

"Aurelian forbids it," Jeremiah claimed.

Sir Horace paused, uncertain whether to proceed or not.

"Invoking Aurelian's name in vain is invariably fatal," Seymour murmured. "It would be an act of lunacy, or gross stupidity. Whatever else you think of Jeremiah, he is not a fool."

"Truly?" Karena asked, intrigued by the priest's unexpected outburst. "You claim an immortal's protection?"

The Patriarch met her gaze. "Would that I did not have to, but the magister deorum commanded it be so, and none but the witless decline an invitation from Aurelian. He visited me last night, and ordered that I refuse the request you might make of me today, regardless of any threat of harm against me or the Church."

Karena took a step towards the clergyman. He looked as frightened as the soldier on the wall of Carnmel Castle, moments before her sword had claimed his life.

"Gods perform miracles. Without a sign, how are we to know you are not simply lying?"

"My lady," Seymour called.

She did not drag her eyes from the quivering prelate. "The Patriarch can speak for himself, Lord Farrington."

"My lady, come to the window," Seymour said.

Reluctantly, Karena left the diminutive priest behind and strode to the windows that overlooked the sea. It was unusually calm, and a pleasant surprise to see the sun shining, but nothing remarkable met her eye. She searched the surface for any indication of a serpent and the sky for dragons, but saw nothing other than the still sea.

Karena stared, scarcely believing her eyes. The sea was not merely tranquil, it was absolutely motionless. On a sunny day in autumn it had frozen. From Penmere's harbour to the distant horizon there was only ice.

***

Karena was impassive as she rode in procession from Dragon's Hall to the gates of Penmere. Crowds were gathered and cheering, but the memory of failing her brother's task due to the whim of Aurelian made her burn with fury. She had been sorely tempted to ignore the pleas of Horace, Ambrose and Seymour, and have the cleric immolated for his insolent intransigence. In the end, she had relented, and permitted the Patriarch to hobble away. William would be disappointed. She could cope with her brother's frustration, but Jane's contempt would be harder to bear.

Many of the reinforcements had already been sent on ahead, some with orders to make straight for Carnmel Castle, and others commanded to escort provisions gathered by Lord Farrington. Sir Horace and Sir Ambrose rode at her side, and Coldsun strode behind her, leading the few hundred Fettered that had not already left the city. Hollow Knights and newly mustered men from the Mere and Waldean followed the Fettered, the cheers of the people ringing in their ears.

They would not be cheering if the ice had lasted, Karena thought to herself. If it had, the fleet would have been ruined, without fish the city would have starved, and the armies of Esden would have been able to march unopposed into the Mere.

Outside the city's gargantuan gates yet more people had gathered to wish her well, including a throng of perhaps twoscore young men. All were on horseback, armed and armoured, but their surcoats were plain white, as were their steeds' caparisons. One of them attempted to approach her, but Sir Ambrose barred his way.

"My lady, would you be willing to allow us to join the army?" the youth asked.

Karena motioned for Sir Ambrose to let the stranger come closer. He was young, but not so youthful as to be unable to fight.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I am Ebryl Jenner. We," he said, gesturing back at his fellows, "were all in training to become Hollow Knights. Unfortunately, the war means that the Patriarch has forbidden the consecration of any more of us, and we have been faced with a difficult decision. All of us have trained constantly, learnt the scriptures, prayed every moment we were not sparring, for the day we would become Hollow Knights. Some have remained at the Aurelic Palace, uncertain of what the future holds. Some joined me, and came here to ask your permission to fight."

For the first time since gazing upon the frozen sea, Karena smiled. "Dismount, and kneel."

Ebryl did so, and she called out the command to the forty other men, who obeyed.

"In the sight of the Divine, do you promise to faithfully serve me, to do my bidding without question until I choose to release you of this oath?"

"I do," twoscore men agreed.

She leaned over and, at her command, Sir Horace handed her his sword. With the flat of the blade she tapped Ebryl on his shoulders.

"Then I dub thee Sir Ebryl Jenner, the first Knight of the Swan," she decreed, unpinning her silver swan brooch and tossing it to him.
No Man's Oath

The temporary halt in the army's march west had surprised Stephen, but he welcomed the opportunity to spend a little time developing his unspoken language. Whilst the rest of the army was drinking, dancing, and whoring he was inside the castle, in the quarters his cousin had provided. Restless fingers and sleepless mind drove him on. He scribbled down vocabulary and signs, his ceaseless quill drinking ink by the bottle. Emma, unknowing of his intent, waited on him, fetching candles and fresh ink as he required.

When night fell Stephen dismissed her to sleep, a luxury which he did not allow himself until hours more had passed.

Stephen awoke before Emma, as he had hoped, and waited for her. She knocked on his door, and he called for her to come in. She was wearing a green damask dress that Karena had given her as a gift. The generosity had surprised him, but his cousin's cold green eyes had made him uneasy.

Emma curtseyed and waited for instruction.

Stephen raised his right hand so the palm faced her, then lowered it and waited. Confusion was all the emotion she showed, so he repeated the gesture and waited again.

Emma hesitantly raised her own palm, and he smiled.

"Exactly. I've created a tongue without words," he explained. "Well, adapted an idea by the Ndesi, really." He suddenly realised that speaking about it rather defeated the purpose.

Emma was looking at him as if he were mad. Or an idiot. Or a mad idiot. Then she tapped her ears.

Stephen thought for a moment. "You mean, you can understand what I say?"

She nodded.

"I know that!" he exclaimed. "The sign language is so that we can talk to one another, so that I can understand you as well as you understand me."

The expression she wore suggested that if he were not a prince of the realm she would have laughed in his face for such a stupid notion.

Despite her lack of interest, Stephen persevered. He clenched a fist and raised his forearm so it was vertical, then wiggled his fingers, hoping the sign would make sense.

Emma rolled her eyes. After several more attempts, she left the room and returned with a single white candle.

Stephen beamed with delight. By signs slow and fast he had her fetch ink, quills, wine and some bread. After each success he pointed at Emma and tapped his temple twice, hoping that his compliment was clear, and then bowed his head to thank her.

His efforts to induce Emma to speak to him were less successful. Resorting to speech to ensure she knew what he was trying to achieve, it dawned upon Stephen that the lack of understanding was on his part, not hers. Emma had never been other than a mute, and a servant. She had little experience expressing herself in any form of language, and she had certainly never attempted to engage a master, let alone a royal one, in conversation.

Stephen showed her the journal he had filled with symbols and explanations. Initially he had written a word beneath each symbol, before recalling she likely could not read and adding a picture of each object. Uncertain Emma undoubtedly was, but obedience was a trait strongly instilled in her and when he suggested she take the book and study it in her own bedchamber she took it.

Left on his own, Stephen ate a little bread and opened up his diary. The army could benefit from imitating the fabled silent signs of the Ndesi, he wrote, making no mention of his initial reason for exploring the unusual language. The more he considered it, the more the idea made sense. Leaving Emma alone to enjoy or suffer his artwork, he walked out of his room and up the stairs to the King's quarters. Two Hollow Knights stood outside the door.

"Good morning," Stephen greeted them. "Is the King around? I have an idea he might be interested in."

A feminine shriek of pleasure pierced the thick oak door.

"The King left orders he is not to be disturbed unless it is a matter of life or death," the Hollow Knight told him.

Stephen, cheeks red at the continuing sounds of mutual delight shaming his ears, stuttered his thanks and left the building. The sun was bright and he blinked in the glaring light. Stephen wandered up the narrow stairs to the top of the eastern wall and gazed down on the camp spread far below. Garish tents of vivid greens and oranges, reds and blues, rose like a sea of canvas mushrooms upon the road from Harcester. A broad avenue ran through the middle of the camp, and several wide streets branched from it, but by and large the tents were clustered close to one another. The Earl of Waldean, like Stephen and his cousins, had been granted some of the limited space within the castle for his quarters, but the nobility of Harcester, Trewithiel and Longcove all camped with their men. Grand flags fringed with golden tassels sprouted from the top of their enormous tents, around which bored sentries stood guard.

Pain blossomed in his skull. The headache tightened its grip upon him, and he searched for the telltale green flag that would denote an apothecary. Stephen soon found it fluttering above an otherwise drab tent, and left the wall to see if anything could be done about his pounding head.

The King's own soldiers were on duty at Carnmel Castle's gate and nodded in greeting as he passed. A Fenshire lynx prowled ahead of him, and for a moment he thought Karena had returned. It was too dark to be Gorhelga, and he realised it must be Angharad, Silas Harcester's lynx. Somewhere nearby men were sparring, and the clashing blades only sharpened his pain.

A short queue had formed outside the apothecary's tent, and he took his place behind a woman he thought he recognised as a blacksmith.

"Good morning, Helen," Stephen said.

She turned around, stared at him a moment and then curtseyed. "Good day, my lord. Please, take my place."

Embarrassment stalled his response for a moment. "No, no, I'll wait. Hope it's nothing too serious. And, er, you don't need to call me your lord. You're not my vassal, after all."

A short, skinny man left the beige tent, and the line moved forward slightly.

"Ringing in my ears," Helen explained. "The army's short on smiths so I've been hammering iron and steel from dawn till dusk. Glad to have a rest from making horseshoes and mending armour."

It only took a few minutes before she could be seen, and after she left the tent he strolled in to see Catherine waiting for him. She offered him a smile rather than a curtsey. Behind her, shelves sagged beneath the weight of little sacks, glass jars and vials, metal bottles and countless herbs.

"Sword wound, or worried you caught the pox?" Catherine asked.

"What?"

The apothecary laughed. "Just jesting. Let me guess: you either have an aching hand from writing too much, your eyes are strained or you have a headache."

"That's remarkable," he told her. "My hand and eyes are fine, but my head's aching. Do you have anything for that?"

Catherine raised an eyebrow. "Odd for someone who writes so much to have good vision. Still, my father told me that men with mismatched eyes were considered lucky. I've got some willow bark. The best way is to smoke it, or have it brewed into a hot beverage. What would you prefer?"

Stephen smiled. "My brothers used to tease me that having a brown and a green eye meant I was a bastard." He sighed at the memory of his late siblings, and murmured a prayer to Remigius on their behalf. "I'll take whatever you think is best."

Catherine plunged her hand into a large sack and retrieved several pieces of willow bark. She sat at the table and started grating the bark into a powder.

"Any word on when Princess Karena will return?" she asked, brushing the small mound of willow powder into a tin cup with a hinged lid. "There are thousands of soldiers with nothing to do but spar and drink. I'm seeing more broken bones and cuts every day."

"A letter arrived by pigeon the other day, so it shan't be long," Stephen answered.

"Good. The sooner we get moving the better. Do you have a demitasse spoon?" she asked.

"Er, what?"

Catherine sighed, opened a box and retrieved a small spoon. She handed the cutlery and the cup to him. "Add one spoonful to a quarter cup of honey and three-quarters hot water, and drink it all at once. Do it twice a day, at breakfast and supper. After four days, bring back the cup and spoon, and let me know how you are."

Grateful for her help, he thanked her and returned to his quarters. His books were strewn across the floor, and a spilled ink pot had soaked his table. The black stain was still wet to the touch. Stephen dried his fingers and retrieved his books, piling them on a clean part of the table.

"Emma?" he called.

There was no answer, so Stephen knocked on her door and opened it. Emma was nowhere to be seen. The book of signs he had given her was spread open on the floor. Stephen crouched down. It was open on the page with two palms pressed together.

The sign for help...

Stephen tossed the book onto Emma's bed and ran outside. There was no sign of Emma, or anyone who might have taken her. He sprinted to the wall and climbed the steps two at a time. Beneath him the camp sprawled, and he saw strutting soldiers and gossiping whores, but he couldn't catch sight of Emma.

"Perhaps it was a coincidence the book fell open there," he muttered. "Or perhaps it wasn't."

Stephen slapped the stone battlements in frustration, and ran back to the two Hollow Knights guarding the castellan's front door.

"Have either of you seen Emma leave?" he asked them, breathing hard.

"Yes. She left a short time ago, in the company of Sir Trenton and several others," Sir Emyr told him.

"Was she hurt?"

"She was crying, but unharmed," the Hollow Knight answered with utter calm.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Stephen demanded.

The knight, face obscured by a full helm, looked down at him. "We are here to protect the King from danger, Prince Stephen, not to intervene in other matters."

Stephen ran for the eastern wall. A few days ago he had added to his history of the war, writing about many of the knights accompanying the King. Sir Trenton's sigil, he recalled, was a rook holding a bloody hand in its beak. He was a knight of Harcester, so Stephen searched for the larger tents near to that of Silas Harcester, and soon spotted the knight's banner. It did not take long to find, and he was dismayed to see that two soldiers stood guard outside.

Stephen's first instinct was to simply run down there and take her back, but he was well aware he was one of the least imposing men in the army, despite his royal rank. Preferring to fill his days with history and writing, he had never wanted and certainly never needed retainers and, for the first time, found himself wanting them. Karena was far away, William was unreachable and he had no idea where the Knights Lascarian were quartered or if they would help him.

Stephen stared at the hateful flag waving in the wind. He ground his teeth. The King had given Emma's service to him. She was not property to be traded, but her service was a royal gift. Stealing her was not merely theft from him, it was a slight against the King. And there were some men who would not stand for the flagrant contravention of a royal command.

He ran down the stairs, stumbling in his haste, and sprinted back to the two Hollow Knights guarding the castellan's quarters.

"The King gave her to me!" Stephen exclaimed.

The two knights did not feel compelled to say anything.

"In Harcester, the King declined Emma's service and gifted it to me. That she serves me is a royal command, and Sir Trenton has broken it."

The two knights looked at one another, and although no word passed their lips it was clear they were weighing up his words.

"Breaking the King's command cannot be permitted," one of them eventually said. "Go to the barracks and claim command of half a dozen Hollow Knights to enforce the King's will, on the authority of Sir Emyr."

Stephen thanked him and ran to the barracks on the other side of the courtyard. There he found six Hollow Knights who, after checking with Sir Emyr, agreed to follow his command.

He ran through the castle's eastern gate, fearful for Emma's fate but confident in his companions. The Hollow Knights were not only amongst the finest warriors in the world, they were known to be representatives of the King. If Sir Trenton disobeyed them it would be considered tantamount to treason.

The camp was filled with men meandering hither and thither, but when they saw the Hollow Knights marching behind Stephen the common soldiery made certain not to stand in their way. Whispered questions followed him as he headed for Sir Trenton's tent.

"Is Emma inside?" Stephen demanded of the two sentries.

"Sir Trenton left orders not to be disturbed," a bucktoothed guard told him.

Behind Stephen six broadswords were unsheathed, and he shuddered at the unexpected sound.

"This is the King's business," a Hollow Knight stated. "Stand aside."

The two sentries did not dally, and took several paces to allow them entry. Stephen gestured for the Hollow Knights to lead the way, following in their wake. The first room within the tent was occupied only by a dining table, but beyond was a second room from which Stephen could hear male voices. Glad the steel-clad knights were present to bolster his uncertain courage, he entered the second room and saw Emma. She was clutching the ragged remains of her torn damask dress to preserve what little of her modesty remained. The fear in her eyes made wrath rise up in Stephen's heart and threaten to overwhelm his sense. Beside her, Sir Trenton stood, dagger in hand.

Trenton grabbed Emma's long brown hair and placed his dagger at her throat. "Leave, princeling. I offered this morsel to the King, but had I known he'd found himself some noble to warm his bed I would have kept her for myself. She's a pretty little thing, and I shall not relinquish her captivating company a second time."

The Hollow Knights started to advance, but Stephen stepped in front of them and ushered them back.

"I have no interest in you, sir. I only want Emma, in accordance with the King's command. You can see these fine fellows," Stephen gestured at the silent menace of the Hollow Knights, "are quite intent on seeing the King's command carried out. Do you really intend to be cut to pieces for her sake?"

Trenton's free hand stroked Emma's naked shoulder and delved beneath her dress. She shuddered at his touch.

"I like my little girl," he said, raising his hand and caressing her cheek. "But no woman is worth death. You have a reputation, princeling. For softness, and cowardice, but I can see you've been moonstruck by this dumb bitch. Give me your word that no harm shall befall me, and I'll return your pet."

"He must die for his transgression," a Hollow Knight said, speaking as calmly as a man ordering dinner.

"If Emma is returned to me, of his own free will, the King's command is enacted, is it not?" Stephen countered. "Let her go, and we will leave, without bloodshed. I give you my word."

Sir Trenton said nothing, and stared not at Stephen but the half dozen knights behind him. At the sound of steel blades being sheathed, he lowered the dagger and pushed Emma towards Stephen.

"Are you alright?" Stephen asked.

Emma nodded, and mustered a short-lived smile. Her dress was little more than rags, so he took off his tunic and gave it to her. It hung down to her knees and she gave him a peck on the cheek which summoned a rush of blood. He put an arm around her shoulder and led her away from Sir Trenton.

***

Stephen was so engrossed in a history of Caer Seren he almost leapt out of his chair when someone knocked on his door. He put the book down, opened the door and saw a Hollow Knight standing there. When the knight spoke he realised it was Sir Emyr.

"Prince Stephen, the King requests your presence."

It was a short walk to the King's rooms, but during it he wondered how angry his cousin would be over the appropriation of Hollow Knights to rescue Emma. The diminutive status of the royal house all but guaranteed he would not be subject to serious punishment, but whatever fury lay before him, it had been worth it. Stephen breathed deep and slow, and entered the King's quarters.

King William was sat at the head of an otherwise empty table, and tapped the chair on his right. Stephen obediently sat, and was a little surprised when his cousin poured them both a goblet of wine.

"To the House of Penmere. May it be blessed by the Divine," the King toasted.

Stephen echoed the words, and took a small sip of his wine.

"Jane and I were most amused to hear of your little contretemps with Sir Trenton," the King said, finishing his wine in one go and pouring himself a second. "You've always been meek and mild, cousin, but I see something about her has stiffened your resolve considerably."

Stephen drank a little more wine. "I thought you might be irritated that I used the Hollow Knights to reclaim her."

The King laughed. "Amused, surprised, pleased, yes. Irritated? Not at all. I'm glad to see that something is capable of stirring you from your scribing. You did make a mistake, however."

Stephen frowned. "Emma is safe and well. What was my mistake?"

The King put down his goblet, leaned to the left side of his chair and picked something up. He dropped Sir Trenton's severed head on the table.

Stephen stared aghast as the head rolled his way. The dead eyes stared at him, pain etched into the cold flesh. Stephen got out of his seat, ran to the window and retched. Vomit, stained red with wine, gushed outside, and when his belly was empty he continued retching until his breath scraped in his throat.

"Emma is quite stunningly beautiful. If she were a noble it would be a great blessing," William said, not bothering to rise from his seat. "But she is not noble. She is a servant, lower than the lowest soldier and certainly far beneath the hundreds of knights in the army. These men know that they will soon fight, and many of them will die. They become ravenous for the joys of life, because they may have little left. So they drink too much, and whore too much, and would risk the hangman's noose for the chance of a woman as beautiful as your pretty little servant."

Stephen wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and turned to face his cousin. "There is strength in mercy, and kindness. When your great-grandfather sided with the Fettered, he stood apart from the Esden brute. That compassion earnt him the kingdom."

"Mercy has its place. And so does retribution. It cannot be easy to tell which is best. When Sir Douglas surrendered this place, I was uncertain which way to turn. Can you believe that Simon Waldean urged clemency, and Karena vengeance?"

"I can believe what you say of Karena."

William smiled, briefly.

"He should not have been harmed. I gave him my word," Stephen said.

"But not mine," William replied. "No man's oath can bind a king, save his alone."

Stephen sighed. "It wasn't necessary. Emma was safe."

"A man cannot be permitted to transgress in the way he did. The royal command and dignity of a prince does not brook brazen theft. If you are going to carry a sword then you need to recognise that a blade's value is in violence, and the threat of violence."

The King refilled both goblets. He pointed at the empty seat.

Stephen sat, but left the wine untouched.

"Why would I want to carry a sword?" he asked.

William shrugged. "Want to? Well, most men _want_ to. I imagine you do not. You seem content to be surrounded by books and ink and quills, and happy with your new servant. But you need to decide what you're going to do with her. If you wander about with no sword at your hip, no soldiers in your retinue, a reputation for feminine mildness, what do you think will happen? It is only a question of time before she is claimed by some lust-filled drunkard, and then, like as not, murdered so she cannot identify who despoiled her."

Stephen raised the goblet to his lips, and when he lowered it the golden vessel was empty. "I'm not a soldier, and never wanted to be one. If you took Emma into your service nobody would dare harm her."

William scowled. "Tempting, more tempting than you know. But you're wrong. Oh, the soldiers would leave her alone, but dearest darling Jane is not nearly as meek as you. I only refused her service in the first place because I don't care to antagonise the daughter of the Earl of Falchester. And you know what Karena can be like."

"Yes... but I'm no warrior. You know that."

The King shook his head. "There's more to being a soldier than a lust for carnage and a belief swinging a sword makes you a bloody hero. I don't claim to be as well-versed in history as you, but we both know strategy matters as much as valour on the battlefield. Let someone teach you how to wield a blade and wear armour, take on a small retinue, and put all that knowledge of yours to some practical use. Advise me."
The Serpent and the Swan

Good weather blessed Karena's return to Carnmel Castle and she made swift progress west. She drove the reinforcements on relentlessly, eager to rejoin her brother before the harlot of Falchester could sink her claws yet deeper. The days of travel afforded her the opportunity to become acquainted with her new knights. Karena was somewhat amused that the young men so often seemed flustered by her presence. It came of having spent their whole adult lives cloistered away from women, Sir Horace explained.

"My elder brother became a Hollow Knight," he said.

The pair of them were eating mutton stew in her tent, Gorhelga sprawled out on the ground like an overgrown house cat.

"Ah, I remember you mentioning him once before. What was his name? John?" Karena asked.

"Joseph." Horace shook a little salt over his stew. "The fool was drunk on religion, but letters wouldn't come to him, so he couldn't become a priest. A Hollow Knight was the closest he could manage."

Karena leaned down and tossed a lump of mutton to Gorhelga, who purred with delight. "The Hollow Knights are an honourable order, and perform a sacred duty. I'm sure your brother did well."

Horace sighed. "A few years after it happened, he was moved from Penmere to Falchester. It was summer, so the seas should have been safe, but a serpent tore his ship in two. He was always strong, even before the rite, but it happened miles from the shoreline and you've seen the armour they wear."

The knight chewed his mutton, and went on. "I see those lads, little more than boys, and it makes me think of him. The years go by so quickly." Horace smiled at her. "I remember a grumpy little girl who kept burning her dolls until she was given a Fenshire lynx all of her own."

Karena smiled at the memory of her childhood antics. "And I remember a dour young knight who was less than thrilled to be tasked with guarding a six year old girl."

"Could have been worse. It could have been your brother," Horace mused.

She laughed, but a shadow at the door chased the levity from her soul. It was Sir Ebryl. Like most of the Knights of the Swan he wore a crude surcoat made of green cloth with a white swan stitched onto it. The men had fashioned the surcoats themselves on the march, and had promised to find better once they reached the army.

"Forgive the intrusion, my lady, but you asked to be informed when Lord Coldsun returned," Ebryl stated, remaining outside the tent and refusing to stray within.

"That's just Coldsun, boy," Horace told him. "The Fettered do not concern themselves with lords."

Karena nodded. "What did he find?"

A sheepish expression foretold his hesitant answer. "He indicated that he would answer to you personally, my lady."

"Tell him I shall send for him shortly. That is all."

Ebryl bowed and left her.

"Making him wait for refusing to speak to the whelp?" Horace asked.

Karena shook her head. "Can you imagine trying to eat with that smell in the tent? I value Coldsun's apparent loyalty, but he's hardly an ideal dinner guest."

Once the mutton stew was finished she had Horace fetch the Fettered. Coldsun's odour arrived before it did, and was sufficient to provoke a growl of displeasure from Gorhelga. It was still carrying its longbow, and a quiver laden with arrows hung from its belt. Coldsun did not bother to kneel, bow or otherwise trouble itself with pleasantries.

"There are no remnants of the Beckworth army," it stated. "A horseman we found, and captured. He claimed to be a messenger sent by Harcester's lord."

"Where is he?" Karena demanded.

"Half a mile away, bound and guarded, but unharmed."

"Show me."

Coldsun turned about and strode from the tent. She shared a look with Horace, and then followed, her knight and lynx alongside her.

"Why didn't you bring him to me at once?" Karena asked, hurrying to keep up with the Fettered. Whilst incapable of running, their loping, effortless stride was uncomfortably fast.

"The hearts of the den'sokoth are clouded with treachery. We do not give trust to strangers."

More than a score of the Fettered surrounded their captive, who was laid on the ground. At Karena's approach he made a muffled exclamation.

"Remove his gag," she ordered.

Coldsun reached down and picked up the man by his tunic. "Be still," it ordered the trembling man, who did his best to obey. The Fettered held the man's rope gag with one hand and slid the claws of the other beneath the rope. One slow motion cut through the gag, and the captive gasped with relief.

"My lady, I was sent by the Viscount of Harcester to tell you of events in the south," the messenger explained.

"My apologies for your treatment. As you can see, the Fettered are loyal yet suspicious also. Cut his bonds," Karena told Coldsun, "and if he proves false, kill him."

The Fettered's sharp claws sliced through the ropes binding the messenger's wrists and ankles. The hornskins continued to stand less than a foot away from him, ready to protect her.

"Tell me what has happened, and we shall see about getting you a hot meal."

The messenger rubbed his sore wrists. "It's wonderful news, my lady. The Hykirs were on the brink of claiming Fenwick, but were destroyed by the army the Duke of Esden sent south. A second battle crushed a horde attempting to overthrow Eirik's Wall."

"That is good news," Karena agreed. "What losses were suffered?"

The messenger answered, "Many mages and golems, and over half the men. It also forced Lord Fenwick to side with the traitors, though the state of his land means he could only spare a few hundred men." He paused for a moment, and even in the darkness she could see the smile on his face. "Henry Esden is dead. He died at the second battle, at Eirik's Wall. His amulet was swapped for a fake."

Karena merely nodded. "What of Stuart?"

"I... he has taken command of the army for its return to Esden, my lady," the messenger replied.

She sighed. "Henry will be a great loss for them, but Stuart is no mean soldier. We must hope his father's vaunted sense of propriety will see him make the milksop David his new hope for the throne. Is there any word on the fate of Sophie Hurstwood?"

"None, my lady," the messenger answered.

Karena commanded that the messenger be given wine and a good hot meal before he returned to Harcester, and she went back to the camp with Horace and Gorhelga.

Once within the privacy of her tent, Horace observed that she did not seem particularly pleased with the news.

Karena scratched Gorhelga's chin. "Go watch the door," she commanded the lynx, who slinked towards the tent's entrance and sat there, staring into the night.

"Why kill Henry and not Stuart?" Karena asked Horace.

The knight shrugged. "Henry is the elder, and it would have been no small feat to kill him."

Karena tapped her fingers on her chair's arm. "No. If someone were close enough to swap Henry's amulet surely they could have done the same for Stuart? This is a strange murder."

Horace frowned. "You do not think the King might have ordered it?"

"No. We discussed the matter at some length. Unfortunately, the House of Esden is rather larger than ours. We'd need to kill about a hundred men just to be rid of legitimate successors, let alone ambitious pretenders and adventurous bastards."

"Perhaps Stuart covets the throne himself?"

"I hope not." Seeing his confused look, Karena explained, "If he does then David Esden is not long for this world, and I would rather William faced a weak enemy instead of a ruthless one."

***

After days of bright sunshine the skies darkened and rain cascaded from the heavens. Many of the Fettered cupped their hands to drink the rainwater, but the men were less welcoming of the inclement weather.

Beneath Carnmel Castle the camp sprawled, already fattened by the arrival of the reinforcements Karena had sent ahead of her own departure from Penmere. At her command, Coldsun and the other hornskins with her peeled away to join the thousands of Fettered standing at the fringes of the camp. The hornskins did not bother themselves with tents, preferring the open air.

Karena had the various contingents with her, save the Knights of the Swan, disperse to find their fellows and enjoy a rest from the march. Sir Horace, Gorhelga and her own men followed her through the camp to Carnmel Castle. A score of fresh heads were impaled above the gate.

In the courtyard Karena was confronted by the strange spectacle of Stephen taking instruction in swordplay from Jovyn Scawen, the Grandmaster of the Knights Lascarian. Dismissing the curious sight from her thoughts, she entered the castellan's quarters, accompanied only by Gorhelga and Sir Horace.

William was waiting for her, and so too was Jane Falchester. Karena kissed her brother on the cheek and did not spare so much as a glance for his noble harlot.

"Sweet sister, have you heard of Henry?" William asked. "The wages of treason have been paid in full."

"So it seems, but many men are still owed a debt of justice. I trust the Fettered have not caused too much trouble?"

William grinned. "Some drunken fools tried to start a fight, which did not last very long. They've been given a wide berth since then. I had to execute a few of the surviving drunkards, to encourage sense amongst the soldiery."

"Ah," Karena said. "I was wondering whose heads were adorning the gate."

Jane said, "Such is the penalty for those who displease the King. Speaking of failures, it is a shame you were unable to persuade a single ageing cleric to follow the King's own command."

Karena stared at her, and dreamt of a spike impaling the pretty little head.

"Opposing Aurelian is madness," William interrupted. "Nothing else could be done. We have thousands of reinforcements, an army of traitors was crushed by the Fettered and morale soars. I see you have even had time to recruit yourself a retinue, dear sister. Perhaps you should lead the next vanguard?" he asked with a smile.

"Perhaps she should," Jane agreed.

Darling Jane, how I wish you could keep your mouth shut. And your legs.

Karena bit back the retort that it was her, not William, who had delivered Carnmel Castle into royal hands. "What's Stephen doing in the courtyard? I never thought I'd see him wielding anything but a pen."

"Sir Trenton tried to steal back his servant. Would you believe our dear cousin commandeered half a dozen Hollow Knights to claim her back?"

"No."

William smiled. "Nor would I, but he did. Perhaps he's just a late bloomer. We march for Caer Seren on the morrow. Tell your men to enjoy their ease for the rest of the day. Once the Thane reinforces us, we strike at Norcott."

***

There was an air of festivity in and around the castle. Casimis, the day upon which the King would lavish rewards upon his kinfolk and most loyal subjects, was not far off. Anticipation of honours for those faithful to the royal house was matched by excitement at leaving Carnmel Castle and marching for Caer Seren. The army was lusting for bloodshed, and the Fettered's triumph had only provoked its jealousy and deepened its hunger for battle.

Karena watched the sun go down from the eastern wall. Drunken singing rose above the army, and countless figures capered in the dying light. She had ordered Sir Horace to take his ease, and Gorhelga was prowling the castle.

"Someone might mistake you for a warrior," she greeted Stephen, who was clad in armour and had a sword at his hip.

"I don't think anyone is _that_ drunk," he replied. "The Grandmaster thinks I should grow accustomed to the armour's weight, and told me to go for a walk."

Stephen continued on his way along the wall, and Karena decided to walk alongside him. "A sound notion. I hear your serving girl has tickled your fancy."

"I am fortunate in my servant," he replied, not looking at her. "I do not mock your trust in Sir Horace, cousin. Perhaps you should extend to me the same courtesy."

"Perhaps. I'm glad to hear she is helping Catherine. The poor woman works too hard." Karena ran her fingers through the hair of Sir Trenton's severed head as she passed it by. "Wearing armour, growing a backbone, you are changing, cousin. You'll be bedding wenches and gutting traitors next."

A small smile played across Stephen's lips. "I was wondering if your men might do me a small favour. If we could remove half the scorpions from the castle walls it would still be well-defended, and we could use the weapons when we meet the enemy."

Karena raised an eyebrow. "Interesting idea. Does William agree?"

Stephen nodded, and tapped the next scorpion he passed. "He thinks it's a grand idea. I'd order my own men to do it, but I have yet to gather a retinue."

"Very well. I'll tell Sir Ebryl to organise it. Walking for much longer?"

He grimaced. "Past sundown. The Grandmaster is a wise man but I think he's forgotten what mercy is. I can't remember the last time I walked this much, and the armour doesn't make it easier. Thank you for the help, cousin."

Karena left him and had Emma summoned to her quarters. The mute's long brown hair had been tied back into a bun, and the long sleeves of her drab dress had been rolled up.

"Come in, my dear," Karena welcomed her.

Emma hesitantly entered, and Karena shut the door behind her. The princess poured a goblet of wine for them both, and sat at her small table. Emma remained standing, until ordered to sit.

"I hear you and Prince Stephen are getting along very well," Karena commented, enjoying the uncertainty troubling the servant's beautiful face. "Drink your wine. It is ungracious to let it sit there."

Emma took the smallest of sips, prompting a sigh of displeasure from Karena.

The princess leaned forward and delicately stroked Emma's cheek. The servant looked away, her skin quivering at Karena's touch. "I can see why my cousin would be so taken with you. It must be a curse, being so beautiful yet being a peasant. Desired by everyone and with little power to refuse." Karena leaned back and finished off her wine. "Do not tremble so. You have nothing to fear from me. Far from it. Lord Baldwin Mallen is busy trying to marry Stephen off for political convenience, and my brother is amused and pleased his cousin has found someone of his liking, though he would never countenance anything more serious than a dalliance. I, on the other hand, am content for you and Stephen to grow as close as you wish."

Emma raised her eyes and looked at her.

Karena smiled. "I have an undeserved reputation, dear Emma. All I want is for my cousin to be happy. You're the first thing that isn't a book to have actually interested him in his entire life, I think. And Catherine tells me you are making a fine apprentice."

Emma blushed, and nodded.

"Stephen is a good man, but he has shunned royal responsibility for too long and knows more of ancient kings than he does of the conniving courtiers and false friends he will encounter. If you should have need of an ally, simply visit me, and I shall do all I can to help you both."

The door was flung open, and Jane Falchester strode in, followed by eight armed men, half of whom were Hollow Knights.

"I hope you have a good reason for intruding upon my private quarters," Karena told her.

Jane, brown hair falling in a cascade of ringlets, looked down at Emma. "I see you're playing with your cousin's pet. Honour guard," she called to her men, "wait for me in the courtyard." They obediently marched outside, closing the door behind them.

"An honour guard?" Karena asked. "My brother has a sense of humour after all. What do you want, strumpet?"

"Some privacy to speak with you. Get out, girl," Jane snapped at Emma.

The servant stood up, curtseyed to both Karena and Jane, and all but ran from the room.

Jane sat opposite Karena and wore a thin smile. "Poor Sophie. She would have been such a good bride for William, but it seems the Divine have decided otherwise."

"The gods move in mysterious ways," Karena agreed. "Who would have thought that Henry Esden would fall at the height of his glory? It seems that the higher an ambitious creature rises the crueller the gods can be. I wonder who they will next pluck from this mortal life."

"A king needs a queen," Jane stated, discarding her smile. "Sophie is as good as dead and my father is undeclared in his allegiance. It is as good a match as William could hope for. Our marriage will strengthen both the kingdom and the House of Penmere."

Karena poured her guest some wine, and some for herself as well. "So it would seem. But I cannot help remembering that Michael Falchester has something of a reputation for being untrustworthy. And your own presence in Penmere just as the King was convalescing was most... opportune."

Jane rested her chin on her hand. "Karena, how can such a pretty face hide such a suspicious mind? I came here to try and make peace between us, for William's sake. But, if you insist on bitter discord I cannot decline. William will be mine. It is only a matter of time before we are wed, and you have seen the honour guard he has provided for me. What stronger indication do you need than that? He's a fine soldier and a clever man, but like all young men he can be bent easily to a woman's will. And he has been. Perhaps I shall turn that wretched librarian's head, snap my fingers and make Stephen my second lapdog. I'm sure with his cousin singing my praises I could persuade William to send you back to Penmere, there to await a husband he shall pick for you. With my help. You need to decide whether you want the Queen of Denland to be your enemy."

Gorhelga leapt through the window and padded over to Karena, who delighted in the shock and anxiety that briefly troubled Jane's face.

"I enjoyed a similar conversation with Sophie Hurstwood once." Karena smiled. "There's many a slip between cup and lip, dear Jane. Now, kindly get out of my quarters. If you leave William alone too long he may find a less expensive whore to please him."

Karena watched Jane walk away, and then scratched Gorhelga behind her ears.

"Good girl."

***

Night had fallen, and the work continued. Illuminated by braziers and lanterns Stephen and the Knights of the Swan removed the last few scorpions. At his order every second scorpion on the walls had been removed from its mounting on the battlements and lowered by a simple system of pulleys to the ground. The carpenters he had commandeered had crafted a set of wheels for each scorpion. Once the weapons were on the ground the Knights of the Swan set about nailing them securely to their wheels. Emma played her violin in the courtyard, filling the air with a sound sweeter than the grunting and occasional curses of labouring men.

The armour still felt strange to wear, and more than once Stephen had almost tripped over his own sword. For all that, it was a good feeling to see the work almost done and over a score of the mighty weapons ready to travel with the army. Strictly to ascertain the scorpion's true power, for the chronicle he would leave for posterity, Stephen had loosed a single bolt from the weapon. At William's insistence the target had been a corpse wearing chainmail and plate armour. The bolt had been aimed a little too high and struck the corpse's head, knocking it clean off. Cheers had resounded in Stephen's ears and his cousin had slapped him on the back in congratulations.

The weapons were heavier than they looked, but the relentless training of Karena's knights made them strong enough to work without complaint or fatigue slowing their efforts.

When the final nail was hammered into the final scorpion to attach its wheels, the carpenters and Knights of the Swan gave a tired cheer. Moments later they gave a louder one, when Stephen unveiled the casks of wine he had acquired as thanks for their labour.

Whilst the Knights of the Swan set about the wine, their mistress strolled towards Stephen and Emma, accompanied by her faithful lynx. "Aren't you generous?" Karena observed.

Stephen tossed a chicken breast at Gorhelga, and the lynx caught it in her mouth. "Hard work deserves reward. Next time I need help, the soldiery will remember this and be keen to assist."

Karena smiled. "Such faith in the greed of men. You're becoming a little cynic, cousin."

"Work deserves pay, crime deserves punishment. There's no greed involved, cousin, it's simply the world working as it should."

Stephen bade her goodnight and returned to his own quarters, followed by Emma. She had become adept at helping him remove his armour. Stephen knew he should probably find someone to squire for him, but he rather liked having Emma do it.

"Everything is going well," he told her as she handed him a doublet to put on over his tunic. "The King is hale, and the phantom of being crowned haunts me no more. Thousands of Fettered have bolstered our might, and the Marquess of Beckworth and three of his sons lie dead. The Divine are smiling on us, Emma."

As was his wont, Stephen did not go to bed. Instead, he retrieved one of his histories of Denland and enjoyed reading of past glories. Emma sat beside him, and peered over his shoulder at the page.

"Can you read?" he asked.

Emma shook her head, ran her finger across a line of text and then tapped her lips.

Stephen started to read from the book. Emma rested her head on his shoulder and listened to the history of Denland. When he grew tired, he closed the book and she kissed him on the cheek, before leaving for her own room.

***

William awoke as the sun rose. Lines of golden light shone between the imperfectly fitted shutters, bright enough to wrest him from sleep's tenuous grasp. Jane was still asleep, a slugabed as ever. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her naked shoulder.

"Jane, I need to see to the army," William murmured to her. "You should rise as well."

Her skin was cool to the touch and his words did not wake her as they usually did. William held his hand near her mouth and felt no breath stir from her lungs.

"Jane?" he said, raising his voice.

William hurried out of bed and threw the shutters open to let sunlight flood his bedchamber. Jane's body did not gently rise and fall as she breathed, and her lips were bloody. William sat beside her and placed his hand at her throat. Her heart was still. No blood pulsed.

The King put his head in his hands and screamed with futile rage.

Two Hollow Knights rushed in, blades drawn.

"Lady Jane Falchester has been murdered," William told them. "Sir Ambrose, arrange for the body to be cleansed and purified. Sir Wolstan, remain here and guard the body."

William threw on a tunic and buckled on his sword belt, then strode from his bedchamber towards Karena's. Throwing open the door, a shriek from his sister's bedfellow roused her. Catherine held the sheets up to preserve her modesty. Karena did not.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Get out!" his sister snapped at him.

William picked up Catherine's dress and tossed it to her. "Leave us," he snarled.

The apothecary pulled it over her head and, laces undone, fled.

"Are you out of your damned wits?" he spat at his sister.

"No, but you clearly are," Karena retorted. "I will not forgive or forget this intrusion, brother. You must have caught the habit from your bitch."

William slapped her across the face. "If you were any other woman I would have you hanged! By the Divine, Karena, why did you do it?"

"Do what?" she demanded. Fury filled her green eyes, but there was no hint of deception in them.

"Jane is dead."

Karena's eyes widened. She seemed uncertain whether to smile or frown. "How?"

"Poison. There was no mark on her body. You swear you knew nothing of this?" William asked, staring into her eyes.

"I swear by the Divine," she promised. "But I shall not mourn the harlot's passing. She had all but slipped a collar around your neck. What were you thinking, giving her an honour guard and promising marriage?"

William paced about the bedchamber, sighing and running his hands through his hair. "Sweet sister. I may not exult in playing the game as you do, but that doesn't mean I don't understand the rules. I never gave her an honour guard. I gave her eight uniformed jailers. As Esden captured Sophie, so I imprisoned Jane, though the chains were so light she scarcely noticed as I slipped them around her wrists. The honour guard had orders to prevent her ever leaving the army."

Karena seemed lost for words, though sadly not for long. "And marriage?"

"You would be amazed what men say to persuade women to sleep with them time and again."

Karena laughed, and he found himself smiling sadly.

"In truth it would make a fine match," William admitted. "But I would not care to tether myself to such a schemer. And her father is even worse. Now I shall have to send the body to Falchester, and he will, like as not, join the Usurper's cause." He sighed. "One woman's death has cost us thousands of men."
Arthenigan

The climb into the mountains was relentless. The road from Carnmel Castle had long ago degenerated into a narrow, twisting path barely wide enough for a wagon. Stephen's thighs burnt with the effort of the ceaseless march and he was certain the soles of his feet were little more than a bubbling collection of blisters.

Walking in full armour did not make his exertions any easier. Jovyn Scawen had suggested it, and whilst Stephen knew he could refuse to indulge the Grandmaster there seemed little point receiving instruction if he were only to ignore it. Emma rode by his side, and when the King had seen him walking like a common foot soldier he had dismounted to do likewise.

"Going to join us afoot, Simon?" the King called to the Earl of Waldean.

Simon laughed. "Gods, no! If my horse can barely cope with my ponderous weight how the hell do you expect me to manage?"

Behind him, the Fettered dragged the scorpions. Despite the steep gradient and the stony surface of the road, the Fettered neither uttered a word of complaint nor slackened their pace. Stephen looked at their gnarled grey skin jealously, wishing his feet were as impervious to blistering.

"How're your feet?" the King enquired.

"Fine," Stephen lied. If he complained every time he hurt his tongue would wag like a puppy's tail.

The King slapped him on the back. "Glad to hear it, but learn to lie more convincingly. I doubt the Lascarians can help you with that sort of thing, but Karena will offer expert guidance, I'm sure."

A smile briefly interrupted Stephen's grimace. "No point complaining. Besides, there are plenty of magistri in Caer Seren to heal my feet."

"No, there aren't. Healing soldiers in a civil war is considered interference under Aurelic Law. If you ruin your feet they'll stay that way for many a day."

It did not take a prolonged period of contemplation for Stephen to decide to mount his steed. Sore feet were something he could tolerate for a day or two, but he had no intention of marching across the whole kingdom on pus-oozing blisters. Nor would they improve his fencing footwork.

"I am surprised you stayed on foot for so long," Jovyn Scawen said. The Grandmaster of the Knights Lascarian, old enough to be Stephen's grandfather, was still walking. "You should have mounted your horse an hour ago."

Stephen stared at the old man, confounded by what he meant. "Did you ask me to walk simply to see if I would do it?"

Jovyn grunted. "No. To see if you would walk, and for how long. Pride and short-sightedness kept you from the saddle. Pride's neither a virtue nor a vice, Stephen. It can drive a man to excel, or anchor his soul in stubbornness. How are your feet?"

Stephen resisted the urge to give a completely honest answer. His mother had never liked swearing. "They hurt."

"Good. Remember this pain the next time stubborn pride makes you resist a change for the better."

Emma unlaced a small grey pouch on her belt and held it out for him. Stephen took it and inspected the contents, discovering a number of red leaves. Bowing his head to her in thanks, Emma answered by raising three fingers, then making her hand into a closing mouth.

Hoping she had been paying attention to the apothecary, Stephen ate three of the leaves, before pulling the pouch's drawstring tight and tying it to his belt. It took a little time, but the pain in his feet slowly became blunted until it was just a dull ache.

Sheer cliffs and precipitous drops lined the path into the mountains. There was nowhere to stop and rest but on the road itself. Only the most tenacious trees were able to claim purchase amidst the thin soil and steep slopes of the mountains. Cold meals were the order of the day as the army enjoyed its one and only rest before nightfall.

Stephen shared some fish and vegetables with Emma. She had lived far from the sea, and it was her first taste of fish. Judging by how quickly she wolfed it down, he did not believe it would be her last.

Upon leaving Penmere, the King had taken several of the smaller cibusaxa, coldstones that had been crafted to cool the city's storehouses and keep fresh the meat and fish within. Cethegus had expressed his displeasure that the King was breaking the spirit, if not the rule, of Aurelic Law by taking them on campaign. The King had responded by calling into question the magister magnus' parentage. There were not enough coldstones to entirely banish the difficulties the army faced feeding itself, but they did enable fish and meat to be kept for prolonged periods.

Several of the Fettered left their scorpions and scooped up handfuls of pebbles. Stephen watched in amazement as they swallowed the little stones. He struggled to his feet and hobbled over to the nearest hornskin, who looked at him like a man approached by a strange dog.

"Good day. I'm Prince Stephen," he said, holding out his hand.

"Yes," the hornskin agreed, ignoring the proffered hand.

Stephen lowered his hand and tried a more direct approach. "Do you ache after so long pulling the scorpions? Are your feet sore?"

"Concern is unnecessary. The Fettered have thicker skin than the den'sokoth."

He was about to ask another question when movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Emma was waving him over. He turned to say farewell to the Fettered, but it was already walking away.

Stephen limped over to the wayside. Emma was gesturing frantically at a rocky incline by the side of the road.

"By the Divine," Stephen murmured, unsheathing his dagger and hacking away at a buckler fern. Beneath it a stone woman wearing a mage's robe was on the ground, eyes staring in horror at a foe that had vanished long ago. Her hands were clasped in a futile supplication for mercy.

"She is one of the last arcane warlords who resisted Aurelian," Stephen explained to Emma, not taking his eyes from the ghastly perfection of the statue. "He hunted the last of them, and their golems, after they fled into the mountains and turned every one of them to stone."

Emma crept a little nearer and knelt beside the fallen figure. The mage's hood had slipped, revealing a face that would have been beautiful, had terror not chased away any semblance of beauty. Emma cautiously pressed her hand to the statue's cheek, just for a moment.

"Her soul still resides within," Stephen told her. "None of them can move or speak. Their souls are trapped here, denied forever the afterlife, unless Aurelian wishes otherwise. There is no need to be frightened. We will see many more on the way to Caer Seren."

Shortly after the army resumed its march fog fell across the mountains. Stephen could barely see fifty yards, and soft rain was soon pattering down on the marching men. At first the drizzle was refreshing, but as it soaked into the soldiery's clothes and the saturated garments weighed them down they started complaining. Worse still, the rain loosened countless stones embedded in the road, and increasing numbers of men found their footing betrayed as rocks gave way and sent them stumbling.

The Fettered suffered least. The rain provoked no shiver or complaint from them, and their long claws offered them better purchase than the flat boots of men.

Gradually, the rain eased and then stopped altogether. Twilight arrived before the fog departed, and progress was painfully slow. Stephen saw Catherine making her way up and down the army, tending to the handful of men who had suffered serious injury.

The alarm was raised by the vanguard, but almost as soon as it had been heard a second message came assuring all was well. The King had a few choice words for the excitable men leading the way.

"There's thick fog and the light's failing," Simon Waldean pointed out. "The men are tired. It's a small enough mistake." He laughed. "In the last war, I led a charge against what I thought was a Kuhrisch raiding party. Turned out to be the Earl of Falchester."

A mile or so further along the road, Stephen saw the reason for the vanguard's mistake. Several golems and men were congregated in little groups at the side of the road. The mages had long since been turned to stone, but as they gradually became visible in the dense fog they were nigh on indiscernible from living men.

"For a short time the road was considered cursed by the presence of the arcane warlords, and shunned by travellers great and small," Stephen told Emma. "One of Aurelian's final acts as magister primus, before forsaking the role, was to knock that nonsense on the head and reopen the road. Just as well he did. If we had to go by Holstone Castle and Aberwyn it'd take us days longer."

A second call came from the vanguard, and this time it proved no falsehood. A delegation of men sent by the Thane of Caer Seren awaited them. The King called Stephen to his side, and commanded Simon and Karena to remain behind.

Stephen was the King's only noble companion, to his surprise. A dozen Hollow Knights escorted them both to the vanguard, where Giles, Baron of Longcove, was in command.

"So, who greets us?" the King asked, glancing up the road at the twoscore men awaiting him. All were on foot.

"Owain, Gesydd of Aberwyn," Giles answered, pointing at a stocky man endowed with a magnificently bushy lamb chop beard.

"Ever met him?" the King asked Stephen.

"No, but he did kindly send me a copy of a history regarding the founding of–"

The King grew tired of his answer and rode off, followed by Giles and the Hollow Knights. Stephen sighed, and hurried to catch up. His cousin and Giles dismounted a short distance from the Gesydd. Stephen followed their example, grunting as his sore feet met little sympathy from the stony ground.

The Gesydd and two of his men strode forward to meet the King. Owain was not tall, but possessed a confidence in his step and a glint in his eye. A one-handed sword and an axe balanced his belt. The only glimmer of gold on his person was a bear-shaped brooch which fastened his green cloak. Owain's guards were not decorated with gold or silver, but Stephen did notice odd loops of rope they wore above their leather belts. Slings, he guessed, but it was hardly the time to ask.

"Owain, it's good to see you," the King greeted the nobleman.

Owain grunted. "Two days ago we tried sending a messenger, Your Grace, but found Carnmel Castle flying the flag of Esden. What of Sir Douglas?"

The King scowled. "Cerca smiled on us, and the castle fell to a night attack. Sir Douglas led his men on a merry jig into Hell. Carnmel Castle is in trusted hands now, have no fear."

The Gesydd nodded. "A fitting end. Men will think twice afore turning their coats against you. If you please, Your Grace, we'll escort you to Caer Seren. The Thane is expecting you."
A Father's Wrath

It was raining when Karena first laid eyes on Caer Seren. She was unsurprised. Every painting she'd ever seen of the city had an overcast sky. Compared to the grand magnificence of Penmere's white walls, Caer Seren appeared a place so barbarous it could have been built by Kuhrisch. The Thane's hall spread over a hilltop, and was ringed by a wooden wall. Houses clustered about it on the hillsides, like toadstools seeking shelter beside a tree trunk.

Nearby hills were dominated by other structures of great import: the famous brewery where Owen's Star was made, the squat longhouse within which the mages dwelt and the curious sight of a cathedral crafted entirely of wood. Karena shook her head at the Divine structure. Even the humblest church in Penmere was more impressive.

Each hilltop building had its own wall, with lesser buildings crammed onto hillsides or relegated to the low ground between the hills. It almost looked like a score of villages had been established far too close to one another and were beginning to merge into one unholy mess.

"I've eaten bread with more stone in it," Simon Waldean remarked.

Karena raised her eyebrow. "Don't be vulgar, Simon. The Artheniganwyr are proud of their woodwork."

The Earl nodded solemnly. "Aye, and my five year old loves his wooden sword."

Despite the unending patter of rain the army was cheered to finally reach Caer Seren. Several of the men with Owain guided contingents of soldiers to empty hilltops, leaving only the Hollow Knights, Fettered and Knights of the Swan.

"Where is the Thane's contribution to the army?" Karena asked Owain.

The Gesydd pointed to a distant hilltop, its features obscured by the mist-like veil of drizzle. "Those we have mustered are gathered there."

Simon took a swig from his wineskin, and offered it to Owain, who gratefully accepted.

"Many Kuhrisch raids this year?" the Earl enquired as he took back his wine.

Owain shook his head. "Bloody peculiar, truth be told. We had a few in the north but we've seen neither hide nor hair of the savages for months on end. A goldsmith from Helstein suggested rivers of blood were running over the Kuhrland."

"Yet you do not seem pleased," Karena observed.

Owain grunted. "I'm not, my lady. Bloodshed could mean a civil war, or a family feud that's grown into a battle between clans. It could also mean a few men are hammering their foes, establishing enough support to lead something more than a raiding party. In any event, we cannot risk abandoning the northern watchtowers, or leaving Aberwyn undefended."

The Gesydd led Karena, her brother, her cousin and Simon towards the Thane's hall. Men, women and children emerged from their homes, peering up at the strangers. William waved at them, and more than a few waved back. Karena forced herself to smile at the filthy creatures. Half the women had faces stained with purple or green ink, and every man wore a thick beard.

When they caught sight of the Fettered the peasants gasped and gawped, and more than a few retreated into their homes and slammed their doors shut.

Nearer the hall the path became lined with Artheniganwyr soldiers. Each had at least one sling encircling his waist, and several wore unusual cloaks which were little more than slings sewn onto a square of cloth. The soldiers were swathed in green and brown linen and leather, and not one wore a surcoat. Axes were in abundance, though Karena saw few swords.

Outside the Thane's hall two black banners hung. On each a golden eagle soared, and above the eagle a silver star shone. Karena dismounted, mud dirtying the hem of her cloak and sullying her boots. Gorhelga, who had been padding alongside her horse, rubbed her flank against Karena's legs.

"Your cat isn't going to savage anyone, is it?" Owain asked, eyeing the smoky-grey lynx.

Karena ran her fingers through Gorhelga's soft fur. "Yes. But not today."

Owain walked ahead of William, to formally introduce him. Karena, Simon and Stephen, who still looked like a fish out of water in armour, followed the King inside.

Timber beams thick as a warship's mast criss-crossed the lofty ceiling. Figurines and symbols representing the fifty Divine dangled from the rafters, as did some unfamiliar shapes Karena suspected were heathen relics of Caer Seren's old faith.

Writing had been carved into the wooden walls, from top to bottom. Two walls had been etched with the history of the city and its Thanes, and progress had begun upon the third. The hearth was large enough to roast a whole pig. The Thane's table was close to the fire's warmth, but not a single soul sat on its long benches.

It was oddly quiet as Owain conducted Karena and the men to the Thane. Usually, she was sure, the hall would be full to bursting with drunken boasting, playing minstrels and the aroma of fresh cooked meat. Instead it was silent as a crypt, and deserted by all save a handful of men. Karena wondered if that boded well, or ill, and was comforted by the presence of Gorhelga and Sir Horace.

At the end of the hall sat the Thane, bald of head and grand of beard. Behind him was the white-robed figure of Junius, the magister magnus of Caer Seren. To the right of the throne stood two younger men, one with a scruffy failure of a beard besmirching his face and the second comfortable with his beardless boyhood.

Merfyn ap Hywel, Lord of Arthenigan and Thane of Caer Seren, rose from his throne and knelt before his monarch. His two sons did likewise. Junius did not.

"Up, up," William insisted. "A man should not kneel for a kinsman. It is good to see you, Merfyn."

The Thane rose to his feet, and Karena noticed he had a small axe hanging from his belt. Merfyn clasped William by the forearm, leaned into an embrace and slapped the much younger man on the back.

"And you, Your Grace. When Carnmel Castle refused to let us pass I was tempted to send men Holstone way, but without knowing how the land lay I preferred to keep my men close at hand. All that I can spare is yours." Merfyn put a hand behind his older son's back and pushed him forward. "I introduce Glyn, my second son."

"I hope he wields a sword better than a razor," Simon muttered.

William and Merfyn laughed. Glyn glared at the Earl, who smiled in return.

"And this," Merfyn wrested attention from the chagrin of Glyn, "is Perce, my third."

The beardless boy stepped forward and bowed his head to William.

"How old are you?" the King asked.

"Fourteen, Your Grace."

"Killed a man yet?"

Perce smiled. "Just once, I'm afraid. A Kuhrisch brute with an axe charged me, and I introduced his skull to a sling's bullet. Burst apart like an egg boiled too long."

Gethin, the Thane's eldest son, had been sent to protect the north from the Kuhrisch, Merfyn explained. When William raised the question of the hall's near abandonment, Merfyn slumped back into his throne.

"I wanted to speak without a large audience," the Thane stated. "It is not Casimis or Belisariad, but I have a boon to ask of you."

"Name it," William replied, too quickly for Karena's liking.

"I am sick. My heart," Merfyn said, patting his chest. "Sometimes it flutters like the wings of a gull caught by a serpent, or pounds like the drumbeats of war. At times it is deathly slow. The magister magnus has been restoring it as best he can, but magic cannot ward off pestilence. Worse, the war means Junius now refuses to heal me."

"I am familiar with the compassion of the magistri," William remarked.

"It is the same Law which prevents mages claiming temporal power, mortal," the magister magnus retorted. "Perhaps I would like to mend Merfyn's heart. And perhaps I would like to wear a crown. Neither are within my gift."

Merfyn sighed. "The decision is just. I am not pleading for pity. The boon I ask is that you command myself and Gethin to remain here. If I die, Gethin must be able to assume the thanage. But without royal command I would risk appearing cowardly, or selfish, by refusing my heir in your service when I ask others to send their sons."

"Why not come with us, send Owain to the north and let your son rule Caer Seren?" Simon suggested.

"And if I dropped dead at a crucial moment in battle?" Merfyn replied. "A leader must be reliable and in good health. Besides, a Thane should be buried in Arthenigan."

"It may be better this way," William said. "Arthenigan could face dangers from the northern seas as well as the Esden traitors. The Mere may need reinforcements if men from Ashcombe march on the Vinefort. As Lord Farrington rules Penmere in my stead, it is happy chance that your own desire, Merfyn, would also provide an experienced hand at the helm in Caer Seren."

The Thane smiled and bowed his bald head. "You have my gratitude, Your Grace."

"Whereabouts is Lady Jane Falchester?" Glyn interrupted. "I heard she was travelling back to her father after her pilgrimage to the Holy City, and was hoping to renew my acquaintance with her."

William stared in stunned fury at the whelp's words. Before foolish pride could provoke an unwise response, Karena answered.

"Dear Jane," she began, relishing the revelation, "was tragically murdered."

Glyn stared at her, and self-discipline alone kept the smile from escaping captivity in her heart. "Truly?"

"Poisoned," William spat. "Divine alone know how her father will take the news."

Merfyn sighed. "His price for support will triple, or he'll simply throw his weight behind Esden. Such a sad loss, and a damned turn for the war."

***

Gorhelga provoked a mixture of delight and fear wherever she prowled. Arthenigan was as far as could be from Fenshire, and for almost all the Artheniganwyr she was the first lynx they had seen. A few particularly precocious children had ventured to pat or stroke Gorhelga, who indulged their petting. Karena left her lynx to explore the strange sights and smells of Caer Seren.

Merfyn invited his esteemed guests to join him at Owenstead, the feasting hall that adjoined the brewery. It was even larger than the Thane's and well-stocked with a staggering variety of drink from across the kingdom. Owen's Star, brewed next door, was most abundant, but Midnight Lamp, Ashcombe wine, a strange brew called metheglin and even Kuhrisch Black Anchor were available.

"Got any Stone Lung?" Simon asked mischievously.

"If you want poison, ask my apothecary," Merfyn replied. "Last bugger to try that Kuhrisch concoction ended up going blind."

Karena seized a flagon of Ashcombe wine and had Sir Horace summon Stephen to the table she had occupied. The knight poured both of them a drink, and stood behind her.

"I hear tell your servant girl is proving quite adept at the apothecary's trade," Karena mused.

A shy smile crept across Stephen's face. "Emma's enjoying it. And the army can always use more healers." He sipped his wine. "It's odd, don't you think? I never used to worry about a cut or broken bone, but now they take days to heal. We forget how much the magistri do for us."

Karena nodded, studying his face intently. "She certainly seems to be a bright young thing. I daresay she's ever so grateful to you. Just a mute slave to that oaf Trenton before fate threw her into your lap. Now she's learning to be of use, and you've even taught her to speak, in a fashion."

"I just did what a-any man would," Stephen stammered.

"Any man would have done quite otherwise, I assure you," Karena replied. "I worry about you, cousin. You're too damn pure for your own good."

Stephen blushed, and she laughed.

"The King intends to claim Norshire, whether at the point of a sword or through the bonds of matrimony," she revealed.

"But, what of Sophie?"

Karena arched an eyebrow. "Not his matrimony, fool. Yours. Best not to get too attached to dearest Emma. If the King has his way your marriage bed will acquire Norshire's loyalty."

"B-but, the King hasn't said anything," Stephen said, anger flaring in his voice.

Before she could reply the door to the hall swung open. A messenger strode forward and knelt before the King and Thane. His arrival quietened the hall's merriment and commanded attention. Karena rose from her seat and strode to her brother's side, to hear what was important enough to intrude upon the King's privacy.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, my liege, but this cannot wait. Urgent word was sent by Lord Farrington. Sophie, daughter of the Earl of Hurstwood, is dead, claimed by a fire that engulfed Esden Castle," the messenger stated.

"Divine have mercy on her soul," William murmured.

"There is more, Your Grace. The Earl of Hurstwood has already sent word that he will seek vengeance on the battlefield. Illingham Castle's eastern approach has been blockaded, garrisons reinforced, and bridgeheads occupied. The River Meyven is now firmly in the grip of Hurstwood. The Earl is too ill to take the field himself, but has sent what reinforcements he can spare north."

William beckoned for the messenger to rise, and poured him a cup of beer. The King then raised his own cup. "To Sophie. May the Divine be kind to her soul, and merciless to our enemies."

Once all had drunk the toast, the messenger was dismissed.

Silence smothered conversation, and William appeared uncertain what to say.

"Sophie's death was a tragedy," Karena said. All eyes turned to her, and she continued. "No heroic action or impassioned speech will bring her back. But it is within our power to see justice done. To see the men who add murder to the unforgivable crime of treason hurled into the abyss. By fire and sword, King William will avenge the murder of his betrothed."

William led a chorus of assent, and Karena smiled.
Prayers for the Dead

The hills of Caer Seren rose out of the fog like isles in a sea. Hugh dismounted and took an apple from one of the saddlebags.

"We're finally back," he told his steed as he fed her the treat.

It had rained all the way from Carnmel Castle to Caer Seren, and beneath Hugh's rain-washed armour his gambeson and hose were soaked. He led the horse by the reins and made his way towards the city of hills, soft mud squelching beneath his steel boots. Through the gloom sounds of celebration rang out.

Word of what happened has already reached here.

Hugh scratched his burgeoning beard. It was still far too short, but the black beard had swallowed the tails of the serpents coiling on his cheeks. A few days earlier he had washed his face in the Dorlas and found himself staring at the grey locks, silver threads woven amidst the black.

Tents had sprouted on the nearest hilltop like a fairy ring around a hawthorn. Hugh led his horse up the slope, muscles aching and keen to see his liege once again. A small choir of tattooed women sung familiar hymns in a strange tongue. The purple tattoos which had so effectively disguised him in Esden confounded the Artheniganwyr, many of whom greeted him in their own tongue.

Eventually Hugh discovered the location of the King's tent and went to see his liege. Sir Ambrose, recognisable by one or two telltale wounds to his armour, was standing watch outside.

"Ambrose, good to see you. I must speak to the King."

Sir Ambrose silently let him in. The King was dining alongside his sister, Lord Baldwin Mallen and Owain, Gesydd of Aberwyn. All rose to greet Hugh, and Owain slapped him on the back. Despite his delight to be reunited with his liege, little of the warm greetings rubbed off on him.

"Baldwin, Owain, I must speak to Sir Hugh alone," the King stated.

The two men said their farewells and left the knight to face the King, and Princess Karena.

"Lord Farrington sent word," the King said. "Esden is claiming Sophie was killed in a fire. Was she?"

Hugh forced himself to make eye contact with his liege. "No. There was a great fire in the stables, close by, but that was not how she died. I had made arrangements to free her. A brute by the name of Bohemond Rasten entered the jail as we sought to leave. We fought, and he wounded Lady Hurstwood most grievously."

The King was silent.

Karena twirled a lock of dark red hair around her finger and asked, "Did the wound claim her life?"

Hugh sighed. "No, my lady. It was almost certainly fatal. A magister could have healed it, but not during a time of war. No attempt at flight could have succeeded, but if I left her behind the Duke may have managed to keep her alive as a trophy for his youngest son."

"What did you do?" the King asked.

"At her insistence, and following your command, my liege, I ended her pain. My dagger pierced her heart, and gave her peace."

The King's eyes blazed with fury. "My command was for you to save her!"

"Unless escape was impossible, Your Grace," Hugh answered. "There was no hope of success, and it was her suggestion. Forgive me, my liege, but I did as you commanded."

"I did _not_ command the murder of a captive woman!" the King shouted.

Hugh opened his mouth, uncertain what to say. His eyes flicked to Karena, her face full of thunder.

"I did," she confessed.

"What?" the King demanded.

"Dismiss Sir Hugh, so we can discuss this in private."

The King strode over to Hugh and put a hand on his shoulder. "Forgive me, my friend. I should have known a man of honour would not act in such a way were it not for the work of the devious and the conniving." He turned to face his sister. "It is for you to explain yourself, sister. Will you not be happy until every other noblewoman in the kingdom is dead?"

Karena did not rise from her seat. "If you wish to have this discussion in front of another, then so be it. I did what was necessary, what you lacked the stomach to do. Rescue was impossible, or Sir Hugh would surely have accomplished it. You would sooner have Sophie the captive bride of Stuart Esden than die an honourable death, and prefer Hurstwood's men to be attacking your army instead of reinforcing it."

"Your vengeful whim killed the woman who ought to have been my wife! Is this how we are to prosecute war, sweet sister? Murdering the children of our allies?"

Karena got to her feet and strode towards the King. "One death has gained us thousands of men. You are in a battle to the death for the crown, brother. Have you the stomach and the heart for it? Winning a war is not some pretty little poem of chivalry and knights in shining armour. It's about grinding our enemies into the dirt. By whatever means, fair or foul, every single one of them will acknowledge our lordship or they will die."

The King folded his arms. "What you describe is butchery. I am not blind to the horrors of war, but I will not inflict them on my own people."

"I would expect this timid morality from the likes of Stephen, but you? You cannot be a king if you cannot even be a man."

The King slapped her. From the shadows, a deep growl alerted Hugh to Gorhelga's presence. Hugh stepped forward, hand on his sword. The lynx made her way to Karena's side, fangs bared and hackles raised. The princess waved her cat away, and Gorhelga took a few paces backward, but kept her eyes on the King.

Karena wiped a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth. "So you say, but see how naturally the abuse of an unarmed woman comes to you? Just a hint of anger and your fists are flying. Ask Sir Hugh about the brutality of war. But don't strike him if he happens to offer you advice that is not to your liking."

Karena strode from the tent, her lynx following close behind her.

The King sunk into his chair and put his head in his hands. "It is only you and I, Sir Hugh. We have known each other a long time. Speak truly. Is my sister right?"

The knight sat beside his liege, and thought for a moment how best to frame his words. "Your sister speaks with harsh words, my liege. Within their coarseness is a kernel of truth. War is never pretty, and a war against our fellow men worse than most. I cannot claim to be comfortable with Lady Hurstwood's fate, but it has bolstered your position in the war. In peacetime, a ruler must be moderated by mercy and generosity. Even in war, these can have places in his heart. But his greatest weapon is ruthlessness. Decisions that grieve your heart will strengthen your hand."

***

Hugh prayed in silence. The cathedral of Caer Seren was an unfamiliar place to try and soothe his soul. Penmere was the city of the gods, and every street had a church, monastery or abbey. Religious processions clogged the streets every week, and Penmere was home to both the Hollow Knights and the foremost cleric in all the world. Compared to the godly magnificence of the city's white marble, Caer Seren's wooden cathedral appeared diminutive and crude.

Appearances were deceptive. Within was a riot of colour and decoration. Two rows of wooden pillars led to stone statues of Valerius and Cerca, the patron gods of the city. Garlands of flowers and votive candles clustered at the feet of the Divine. The criss-crossing rafters and ceiling were painted black and studded with silver stars. Golden lightning tore the darkness asunder, signifying the powers of both Cerca and Valerius. Figurines of the Divine, stars, moons and charms of Arthenigan's old gods dangled from the rafters. Spiralling knots and writhing serpents had been carved into the columns and daubed in vivid blues and greens. Even the Divine had been painted. Compared to the bleak uniformity of Penmere's white stone the cathedral was stunningly bright.

Night had fallen long ago. Hugh preferred to pray alone, and when he got to his feet his knees cracked. Outside, his flesh trembled at the sudden coldness. Winter was waking from its long slumber. Soon the pass Rhudd Carreg guarded would be closed by snow and ice. The army would not stay in Caer Seren for long.

Hugh strolled down the cathedral's hill, through the solitary gate in the wooden wall that surrounded the holy structure, and wandered towards his tent. The Thane had offered him a place in his hall, but Hugh was more comfortable with the soldiery. It turned out he was not the only man meandering through the city in the dead of night.

Prince Stephen and his serving girl were enjoying a midnight walk, though a stranger spying the pair might have picked them for more than master and servant. The young prince, still wearing his armour, walked towards him.

"A little late for a stroll, isn't it?" Hugh asked.

Stephen smiled. "We like the quiet of the night. By the way, I received a letter which was meant for you. I'm afraid I opened it by accident. It was regarding a Sister Mary. The abbess of Haldale Abbey wanted you to know that she's making a slow recovery. Was she sick?"

"I encountered her on the road. She was set upon by a brigand," Hugh explained. "Her ankle and shoulder were crushed, but I managed to kill her attacker before he could mortally wound her."

Stephen smiled. "That's good. Saving her, I mean, not the attack. I'm sure you'll be in her prayers, Sir Hugh."

"Aye. And she shall be in mine."
Also by Thaddeus White

Bane of Souls

Journey to Altmortis

The Adventures of Sir Edric (Volume One)

Forthcoming

Traitor's Prize (The Bloody Crown Trilogy Volume Two)

Crown of Blood (The Bloody Crown Trilogy Volume Three)
Recommended Reading

Theft of Swords, by Michael J Sullivan

Furies of Calderon, by Jim Butcher

The Heir to the North, by Steven Poore

The Blade Itself, by Joe Abercrombie

Empire in Black and Gold, by Adrian Tchaikovsky

The Master of Izindi, by Dave Wallace

Among Thieves, by Douglas Hulick

Prince of Thorns, by Mark Lawrence

Goblin Moon, by Teresa Edgerton

Spellmonger, by Terry Mancour
Acknowledgements

First and foremost, thank you for reading this abridged edition of Kingdom Asunder. If you enjoyed it, please do buy the full version, which includes the Esden side of the story, and is about 40,000 words longer.

As ever, beta readers have been invaluable. I was particularly worried about getting Kingdom Asunder right because it's part one of a trilogy and, like the first corner in an F1 race, you can't write a great trilogy with the first book but you can sure as hell ruin it.

In particular, I would like to thank Kerry Buchanan, Alexander McGregor, Tony Barrett and Michael Watterson for the extensive reading they did, as well as Jo Zebedee, and the SFF Chrons community for their help.

For assistance with the Welsh used for Arthenigan, I would like to thank Tomas Forsey. Any errors are entirely my responsibility.

The map, which can be seen in full size on my website, is largely my own work though I would like to thank Michael Kaye for the outline of Denland's coast (as well as the islands of Cara's Rock and Jera). The two dragons are miniaturised versions of art intended for the back of the future paperback version. Speaking of which...

Last, but most definitely not least, I should like to thank Yoong (Tiramizsu) who did the cover (indeed, all my covers), and who remains both an excellent artist and someone with whom it's very easy to work. I like being responsible for 99% of everything, and the cover's the biggest part of the book I have to farm out. Having a trusty artist is a great help.
About the author

Thaddeus White is the pen name for someone else, who finds the third person rather odd. Kingdom Asunder took him rather longer to get released than expected, but the plus side is that the sequel, Traitor's Prize, should be out sooner than would otherwise be the case.

When not writing fantasy, whether serious or silly, he enjoys reading fantasy and classical/medieval history, as well as watching and betting on Formula 1 (with mixed results).

In addition to Traitor's Prize, his immediate writing plans are for the next Sir Edric adventure (Sir Edric's Kingdom), and working on the final part of the Crown of Blood trilogy.

For updates on writing projects, occasional free short stories and bits of art, the author's website is here: http://thaddeuswhite.weebly.com

For reviews of history books, videogames, author interviews and rambling about writing, his blog is here: http://thaddeusthesixth.blogspot.co.uk

The author is also on Twitter. Your praise, criticism, and devotional haikus are welcome at: <https://twitter.com/MorrisF1>
