Wyndall nodded in understanding. He had lost everything to Glendar’s insane campaign against Wildermont, but his smile didn’t falter. “I bet Lady Trella is pleased.” He gave his wife a long kiss on the lips.
“To say the least,” she replied and pulled him closer. “Promise me, Wyndall. Promise me you’ll not run off with them.” Her eyes took on a fearful look. “Lord Gregory is not your liege any longer, and you’re about to be a father.”
“You’re everything to me Lady Zasha,” he reassured her with a pat on her swollen belly. “I’ll not leave you for the world.”
“That is the smartest thing I’ve heard anybody say in months, lad,” Oarly said, turning from the bar with a grin. His voice was full of hope and joy, for he had just figured out what foolish young Phen had done. It was hard to have anything less than respect for the boy’s idiotic action. But after traveling for so long in the company of fools like Brady Culvert, and Sir Hyden Hawk Skyler, to expect anything less from the young mage was just plain silly.
Chapter Thirty-One
“How many?” King Ra’Gren asked one of the underlords from the Dakaneese city of Owask. The title of underlord labeled a man whose station was a few steps above common. In Dakahn, if you were not a slave you were at the very least a lord. This man, Lord Antone, was Battle Lord Ra’Carr’s message runner, and he was fairly nervous. “So far we are thirty-five hundred strong. That’s not counting the men from Oktin and Lokahna. As far as Lord Ra’Carr has been able to tell, that is twice the number of men currently holding Wildermont.”
It was late afternoon and the torch-lit throne room was stuffy with the smell of pitch and men.
“I didn’t ask you for an account of our enemy,” King Ra’Gren growled down from his fur covered throne.
Lord Antone visibly blanched. The last runner, Lord Archa, had been impaled by the King’s trident only a week previous for arguing about Ra’Gren’s attack strategies. Sadly, Lord Archa had been right, and two days after his death the King altered the plan to the man’s suggestion. Remembering this, Lord Antone held his tongue. If he could keep himself alive, he would find great favor and vastly increase his holdings once Wildermont was taken.
“Where are they staged?” Ra’Gren asked. His eyebrows rose as he gazed on the nervous lord below him with a look that challenged him to say more than the simple answer to his question.
“On the border, just north of Pearsh, my King.”
Ra’Gren paused, his large hand clenching and unclenching on the shaft of the iron trident standing at his side.
Lord Antone almost added, “A half day’s march from Seareach,” but wisely decided that the geography of the area made that perfectly obvious to his king. He was glad he held his tongue. King Ra’Gren looked as if he was eager to gig somebody this day.
Seated in the rows of pews opposite the throne were many of the community leaders of the city of O’Dakahn; the owners of the mercenary companies, the major slave traders, the men who owned the farmlands and the like. A few men from the shipping industry, and a group of builders from the Isle of Salazar were there to bargain for Wildermont slaves. Most of the Dakaneese slave merchants usually had representatives in court in their stead, but with Ra’Gren’s coming attack on Wildermont on the horizon, and rumors of a huge slave purchase about to take place, they came themselves.
“Are there not more swords to be had?” Ra’Gren asked with a hard gaze out across the pews. “I know for a fact that there are more than thirty-five hundred sell-swords working in my kingdom. Why are they not in my service?”
The Dakaneese army was strong. Ra’Gren had thousands of soldiers at his command, but for some reason he was trying not to use them in this campaign. He wanted to take Wildermont with mercenaries who didn’t fight under his trident banner. The idea of paying them all with the Wildermont gold King Glendar had gifted him was a pleasant irony.
An older man stood, and visibly forced one of his competitors back to his seat as he worked his way forward. “If I may?” the man said over the murmur of the attendees.
“Speak, Lord Tromas,” Ra’Gren said, causing the room to silence. “You and your company have served Dakahn well. I Trust your words.”
“I can offer you a few hundred more men that have just come in from the sea,” he said with widespread arms. “I think I speak for all of the major companies when I say that we’re spread thin. The increase in our own piracy has created the need for ships and trained fighters to escort cargoes as of late. Most of my men are still away, my King, but as they return, I will gladly send them into your service.”
A man from the front row of pews stood and spoke over the old mercenary. “My King, I have four hundred trained men, and two hundred untrained men to offer immediately.”
“Those aren’t swordsmen, Lord Cryden, those are slaves,” Lord Tromas spat at the interruption.
“Enough,” Ra’Gren said with a booming bang of his trident on the marble floor. “The next man that speaks without permission will be fed to the skeeks.”
Lord Tromas smirked at the upstart then turned back to his king with his chin held high, but Ra’Gren paid him no mind.
The King turned to one of the men standing patiently behind him. “I want the shifts of the city guard thinned down to the minimum. Send everyone who isn’t absolutely necessary along with two thousand of our cavalry to aid Lord Ra’Carr immediately. I want…”
“My King,” a young breathless boy called out loudly, just before one of the great oaken doors of the throne room boomed closed behind him. “Forgive me,” the boy huffed between breaths. A clear path between Ra’Gren and the intruder had opened up. Everyone expected Ra’Gren’s trident to go flying into the young man at any instant.
“This had better be extraordinary news, boy,” Ra’Gren said. The vein on his forehead looked like an earthworm, and his white hair contrasted violently with the bright crimson tint of his anger.
Confused, the boy looked uncertainly at the men who had parted before him. “Lord Paleon sent me.” He gasped for breath and continued. “An army of Seawardsmen have crossed into Dakahn.” The boy breathed again, this time taking a few breaths before going on. “When Oktin’s guard challenged them, the Seawardsmen killed them all. M’lord Paleon says they’re headed to Wildermont to aid the Wolf King.”
Ra’Gren turned to Lord Antone and said hotly, “Well you can scratch the men from Oktin from Ra’Carr’s count. I want riders, birds, and fargin smoke signals if need be sent to warn my Battle Lord. He is to advance his men into the Wildermont hills beyond Seareach long before those tattoo-covered mongrels can get there. The maps show a narrow bottleneck where he can trap them.”
When he didn’t make for the door immediately, Ra’Gren stood and looked sharply down at Lord Antone. “You’d better make sure Ra’Carr gets the message soon, man,” the King growled. “If those Seawardsmen get there before Ra’ Carr can set the trap I will personally flay you and keep your children as pets.” The look in King Ra’Gren’s eyes conveyed a threat far more intimidating than the words, and with that Lord Antone was off.
“You, the man with the trained slaves,” Ra’Gren called out.
“Yes, my King,” the man rose and gave Lord Tromas a smug glare.
“Take your men and slow the Seaward army’s passage.” Ra’Gren ordered as he began to pace back and forth before his throne. “I don’t care if your men are killed or not, nor you for that matter. Buy Lord Antone a day, that’s all I ask. If your men fail, and you still live, I’ll know you for a coward. Now go.”
Lord Tromas pulled on his chin and cringed. He had expected the King to punish the man for his outburst, but not with such finality. He jerked his attention from the matter when his name was called. “Lord Tromas, I want your men on their ships,” Ra’Gren’s voice was harsh. “This goes for all you fargin pirates there in the back as well. Every ship flying Seaward’s setting sun is to be molested. If you can take the cargo, do so; if not, they rest at the bottom of the sea. Valleyan and Highwander ships as well. I want every captain who does not fly the trident to be afraid.”
With a dismissive wave to the attendees Ra’Gren turned back to the captain of the city guard who was still waiting beside the throne. Ra’Gren almost berated him for standing there after he had been given orders, but
