Rodell's own family counted among the nobles, but he decided to let that pass. "Trust Lucretius to die with no living heir to the throne. Unless those rumors of a bastard son are true…"
Oren gestured as though fanning away the statement. "I leave rumors to the fools that spread them. Bastards are not rare, even for kings. But if Lucretius fathered dozens, it means nothing unless documents legitimizing a claim for the throne are found. Unless such documentation surfaces, spare me thoughts of bastards. I've enough of my own to suffer all over the realm, with their hands out as if I owe them something besides bringing them into this world. Thank Deis I have legitimate heirs at home waiting for me to die."
"As you say, your Grace."
"Is there anything else, Captain? I like to have a few moments to brood in silence before threatening nobles."
Rodell almost turned away but paused. "This may seem off the subject, but tales of more than Marcellus are spreading. We've had an increase in traffic coming in the city because of fear. There are increasing reports of people being snatched in the night, vanishing without a trace. My men send out patrols that do not return. Sometimes only their horses are found. The townspeople and villagers speak of night terrors, wraiths that feed on souls. Surely bandits taking advantage of superstitions—"
Oren looked at him in silence, his eyes distant. "Superstition. A label which often describes what is not yet known. Be wary of what you label as drivel, Captain. The voices of the people are usually more trustworthy than the fools who rule them."
"You are saying you take stock in these tales, your Grace?"
"I do not know what to make of it, and cannot divert my attention to investigate. Not now." The wind tugged on Oren's cloak as though to chill him with its icy touch. He ignored it as he looked upon the city. "All I know is that I will not let Kaerleon fall, not so long as I draw breath. Kaerleon is all that matters."
A young courier was allowed passage by the guards at the stairwell. Rodell placed his hand on his rapier grip all the same. Assassins came in all genders and ages, and no one could be trusted of late.
The lad's face was flushed when he handed Oren a sealed message with a smart salute. "From Brumar, your Grace."
"A new Norland rebellion, do doubt. That would be highly appropriate for my mood." Oren waved the lad off before breaking the seal and reading the scanty words. His frown deepened.
Rodell resisted the urge to lean over and spy on the message. "Ill news, your Grace?"
"Depends." Oren handed him the parchment. "I want you to take a battalion and leave for Norland immediately. This changes everything."
Chapter 51: Marcellus
The winds had changed. The bitter northern currents reluctantly surrendered to the warmer breezes that swept in from the south. The icy-fingered hands of winter gradually loosened their grip on the land, though heavy snow still smothered the Alpens. Songbirds sang more cheerfully, and in the deep passes, the Isbjorn emerged sleepily from his den.
Spring had arrived.
Fires ignited flaring through the nights as if sunset meant nothing. Indeed it did not, for the smithies and armories ran nonstop as they forged armor and weapons for the upcoming battle. In his heart, Marcellus felt a stab of guilt. He was using the Norlanders, and many of them would die because of that. What choice do I have? Everyone knows Norlanders seek battle like a drunkard seeks strong drink. Should I be faulted for taking advantage of that?
The months had not been ill spent in Norland. Once the news of Marcellus' return had trickled throughout the realm, support began in earnest. War meant many things to many people, but to most it meant riches and glory. Leodia had laws against the gathering of armies without consent, but Kaerleon could only look to its borders at the moment. In a manner of speaking, Marcellus broke the laws he had sworn his very life to protect.
As expected, the noble knights would not risk their titles by joining swords with a wanted outlaw. But for every noble knight there were thirty wolf knights — those without lands or titles who would only gain renown through acts of valor. Many flocked to Norland to join his cause in hopes of making a name for themselves, or at least the chance for plunder.
Craftsmen and blacksmiths came from Brumar to produce swords, halberds, pikes, and axes. Carpenters set down their craft to produce arrows and spears. Horse masters from Illum came with their renowned trained mounts. The villages and plantations of Garlanelle sold caravans of foodstuffs to supply the troops. Emissaries travelled to Roric, Parand, and the surrounding provinces to discreetly gather as many troops and provisions as possible. The Roricians offered their services in the construction of war machines like the ballista and the onager.
No word had come from Jafeh or Runet, which was no surprise. Both kingdoms were no doubt plotting their succession from Leodian rule. They had borne the yoke of dominion grudgingly as had Norland, but unlike Theron, they would never dive headlong into a battle against unknown foes.
The support had trickled in slowly at first, but once no arrests were made it became a steady stream. Armaments were built, forges were fired, and the people prepared for a war unlike any they had seen before. A war against the shadows. A war against their fears. And their trust was placed in a man who would more than likely lead them all to their deaths. He sighed, wising that there was another way. But it was already too late.
Once the sword is unsheathed, peace becomes a dream again.
He found it easy to immerse himself in the preparations, in the oversight of the unwieldy campaign. It was not easy to build an army for a battle that would take place in a land no one had seen, against an enemy some still did not believe existed. Problems plagued every step of the process, and often he would deal with such issues from first light to the late evening.
But it was more than just the war. Nightly he struggled to contain the seething waves of darkness he knew was the Reaver, impatient to slay akhkharu. Leilavin's golden eyes stared imperiously at him in his dreams, and her smile carried more malice than the howls of a thousand daemons. He distanced himself from his companions, at times curt and abrupt, though he did not know why. He avoided Nyori altogether if he could.
Still, there was more than he could handle alone. He took Creyshaw's advice and regulated duties. Dradyn, Meshella, Han, and Creyshaw took on training new recruits, since many of the volunteers that had swarmed in lacked the skill to even hold a sword properly. Theron had departed to recruit "the bloodiest, most insane buggers ever to split a skull," as he put it.
Marcellus observed Han training a new batch of recruits. Despite his age, Han was a natural teacher, and his students learned faster than any others. Though easygoing, he was firm, able to quickly distinguish the strengths and weaknesses of his students. Marcellus found it interesting that Han started his students with no weapons at all — just hand to hand combat. He stressed focus and discipline, speed and dexterity. That resulted in a swift mastery of armed combat by the time they advanced to weapons training.
"You've been avoiding me."
Marcellus sighed as he turned to regard Nyori. Partly because it was true. The woman confused him. He found it difficult to concentrate in her presence. Difficult to focus on death when she bloomed like a rose in winter.