It was because of him that so many despairing farmers and peasants had flocked to his brother’s banner. Word had spread like wildfire: a Legendary fought against the king.
Such a thing had never been heard of, and many refused to believe it till they saw Scorio approaching, eyes burning, claws flexing, his whole manner instilling fear in their foes and devotion in their allies.
But always he’d held his tongue and trusted his older brother. Bit down on his misgivings and openly supported him.
“What I want to hear,” said Velos, his voice cutting through the babble, “is what Scorio thinks of all this.”
Velos almost never spoke. He was a wiry, saturnine ranger who was as likely to go missing for a week as he scouted the enemy as he was to appear suddenly with a bottle of stolen wine in hand to share. He was greatly respected, and not just for his ability to string and draw his huge black oak bow.
All eyes turned to Scorio, including those of his brother.
“Well?” asked Eberro, his smile rueful, almost enigmatic. “What do you think, little brother? Will you trust me one more time? Shall we work together to avoid slaughter?”
Scorio rubbed at his jaw and leaned forward to study the map. Captain Prewitt’s little miniature was a half-day’s ride from Feldborough, who was denying them entry. Garvin’s archers were strung out in Wainwood, three days’ hard march to the west. And the bitter truth was that the beautiful Lady Farrow wouldn’t send out her knights unless success was assured.
Two hundred men and a rogue Legendary against five hundred kingsmen and who knew how many loyal Legendaries sent to destroy him?
A slaughter, surely?
But the alternative? To disband the men, melt away like shadows, and place their faith in Eberro’s political ploys?
The very thought rankled. But he had no illusions as to what it’d mean to gainsay his brother now, in open council, before every important man in their rebellion.
It would be his bid for power. To assert himself instead of acting quietly from the shadows.
To speak up, or to remain silent?
“We disband,” he said, the silence so profound it nearly ached. Groans immediately followed his words, but he pressed on. “But we reconvene in Wainwood with Garvin a week hence. Every man’s to secret himself through the marshes or down the Whitemilk as he sees fit.”
Eberro frowned lightly, as if only mildly confused. “To what end, brother? This was to be our final battle, remember, before the walls of Feldborough? The Sea Baron’s League has failed to bring its mercenaries to our side—you think they’ll suddenly have an attack of conscience and change their mind?”
“We should never have counted on them,” said Scorio, keeping his words quiet. “We’ve been going about this all wrong. We’ll not defeat the king with knights and mercenaries. We’ll only do it with the arms that have tilled this land and know it worth the fighting for.”
Voices rose in rough agreement, and Eberro’s eyes narrowed further.
“A worthy sentiment, but unfortunately it’s a foolish one. Peasants cannot stand against professional soldiers. We’d pay for each kingsman’s death with a dozen of our own. You cannot mean to win victory at the expense of every man’s life?”
Scorio rubbed at his jaw, grimaced, then shook his head. “See, that’s where you’ve also been wrong, brother. Rump’s Moor was our lesson, but you didn’t learn. We should avoid open battle at all costs.”
“Then how are we to earn the respect of the king, and with that change the taxation and inheritance laws?”
“We don’t need his respect,” said Scorio. “We need his fear. Not of us, but of his barons and dukes. If we bleed them, harry them, burn their estates, kill their livestock, and refuse, always, to meet them in battle, they’ll feel the pain where they’re most sensitive—in their coin purses. And the more they lose coin, the angrier they’ll become with the king, till at last he’ll be forced to sue for peace.”
Eberro snorted. “He’ll sooner come after you with the entire royal army than meet you at a table.”
Scorio smiled and spread his arms. “Let him. Let him chase us from Wainwood to Goose Swamp. Let him march his legions across wine country and feed them at ruinous expense. We’ll melt like mist before him. His coffers are already low. He can’t sustain an endless campaign. We need but wait him out.”
Murmurs of agreement, more pensive this time.
Eberro shook his head. “That’s not how one wins wars, little brother. That’s how you turn the very people against you. They want to look up to their leaders. To know we’re worthy of them. You don’t do that by setting fire to farms and skulking in the bushes.”
“You won’t win this war by trying to make wealthy allies, either,” said Scorio. “They’ll never play their hand till they know it’s safe to do so. Where’s Lady Farrow with her knights?”
Eberro scowled.
“Where’s the Sea Baron’s League with their three hundred Caprisso mercenaries?”
“Pah,” said Eberro, and made to turn away.
“We’ve wasted months chasing your dreams,” said Scorio. “I’m sorry, brother. We won’t give up the rebellion. We won’t ask the king for another chance. We’ll not work with his rotten system. We’ll force him to meet us at that table, or die trying.”
Another rough round of agreement, and Harkan clapped him on the shoulder.
“Then you’re a fool,” said Eberro. “All of you. You cannot defeat the system. This kingdom is far greater and more powerful than you could ever understand. Our one chance was to earn the king’s respect by presenting a unified front against him composed of peers and the powerful. Alone? You’ll die in ditches like dogs.”
The air in the tent turned surly.
“We’ll take our chances,” said Scorio softly. “In the meantime, you’re free to go to the king and plead your case.”
“Maybe I will,” said Eberro, raising his chin, twin spots of color appearing in his cheeks. “I’ll go to Lady Farrow and ask her to present me at court. And despite this betrayal, brother, I’ll ask for clemency for all of you as well.”
“We don’t need clemency,” said Velos, voice tight with anger. “We need a chance to feed our families without being crushed by taxes.”
“Aye,” said Rawn, his one eye burning fever bright with passion. “Piss on clemency! Piss on the king, the kingsmen, Captain Prewitt, Lady Farrow, Sir Kuragin, and the whole poxy lot of ‘em!”
Raucous cheers met these words, to which Eberro could only shake his head.
“Fools,” he said at last. “Then I bid you the best of luck. I will do what I can from afar.”
“We’ll wait with bated breath for that miracle,” growled Harkan as Eberro turned to leave.
“Good luck, brother,” Scorio said. “Don’t make the mistake of trusting the king or his men.”
“I know my way around court,” snapped Eberro, pausing at the tent flap. “Better, it turns out, than I did this tent. Don’t you fear for me.”
And with that, he was gone.
For a moment, everyone stood, stunned by the magnitude of what had just happened. Scorio stared at the tent flap, unable to quite believe he’d finally spoken his deepest, most dangerous thoughts aloud.
Rawn hocked, spat, then turned to the map. “Well then. Good to finally have a man in charge who talks sense. Enough with licking the boots of those who wouldn’t piss down our throats if our hearts were on fire. What do you say, Scorio? Wainwood in three days?”
The other men clustered back around the table to study the map, and with a deep breath Scorio dragged his attention back to the miniatures.