Chapter 29 - A Call to Arms
Emery Blacktree strode down the path lined with pitched tents on either side as his guards and soldiers set up camp once again for the night. They hammered away, pinning the tents into the ground.
The carriages and wagons carrying the royal family and the company’s supplies had been left by the tree line where the horses had been hitched. Further down the line was the rest of the Ashen procession who had left Andervale, including several barons from across the kingdom.
The glary afternoon sun was blocked by storm clouds. Sporadic rain had made much of the trip wet and miserable.
The king was infuriated and walked with determination. He did not attempt to avoid the puddles of brackish water and mounds of mud along the path created from the rains earlier that day, as he would normally do.
There were far more important things to worry about than dirty boots.
Emery had just returned from a short hunt with Ser Yelin Mortimer in the woods beside the east road they had been travelling down on their return trip to Dawnhill. While the royal company had more than enough provisions for the return trip home, Emery had insisted on some time in the woods away from everything… and everyone.
He had needed a break to settle his mind, even just a short one. The men had been lucky, scoring a few rabbits and even a quail. It had felt good to fire a bow in his own hands again.
The air was dense with the smell of mulchy leaf litter and wet grass as Emery reached the main pavilion at the end of the pathway- an enormous tent of black and silver cloth and surrounded by flagpoles bearing Ashen’s shield sigil. The two guards standing by the entrance bowed, before one reached down to open the flap to the pavilion for their king.
Emery was immediately hit with the strong scent of burning incense. The interior of the pavilion was dimmer than outside, lit by a dozen or so freestanding candlesticks. Off to the side was a cupbearer with a trolley of different wines and beverages.
A large round table sat in the centre of the pavilion, surrounded by wooden chairs, and covered in maps, letters, and other papers.
Emery greeted his wife Sirillia who was sitting at the table with a blank stare on her face. She barely even registered Emery’s kiss on her cheek. Her eyes were still red from her constant weeping.
Emery could not imagine how exhausted she must have felt; she had barely slept a wink since they had left Andervale.
Petir was being attended to by a young physician named Carter at Sirillia’s side. The physician tied his long hair into a ponytail, unrolling his pack of medical tools like some sort of torturer.
Petir braced himself against the side of the table, wincing as Carter adjusted his spectacles and lent forward to examine his arm.
The wound was gruesome. Carter had applied several salves to the open injury to prevent it festering. It had only been relatively successful, as some of the tissue was growing black and was oozing a yellow liquid with a foul odour.
He had even been forced to cauterise some patches the previous night.
Petir sculled a cup of brown ale as Carter unwrapped the bandages and dressings on his arm.
“Slow, slow,” Petir begged, sweat dripping down his reddening face.
“I can’t stomach this,” Sirillia said, immediately averting her gaze and holding her mouth to prevent from spewing up.
Emery huffed aloud. “Must you do that here of all places?” Emery shouted.
Petir shot a glare at his father. “I have been mutilated by your allies, and you want me to suffer out of sight?!”
“I will not tolerate you making your mother sick,” Emery boomed.
“She should be caring for me, not repulsed by me.”
“I just can’t see you like this. It’s too much,” Sirillia exhaled. Her face had grown pale as she held back tears.
“I won’t hear any more of it.”
“It’s fine, Emery,” Sirillia said.
“No, it’s not fine!” Emery snapped.
“My king,” Carter said, “it will only take me a moment to finish redressing the wound.”
Emery nodded. “Make it quick.”
Emery refocused his attention to the maps on the table splayed out before him. He needed to set his mind on anything other than his son right then.
Carter used two fingers to dab a white paste on a section of stitched wound before picking a pair of forceps from his tools. Petir winced and grit his teeth all the while.
Emery looked to his wife. She could not avert her eyes any longer. She watched Petir helplessly, hand to her mouth.
“Creator, hurry the fuck up, will you?!” Petir shouted, slamming his foot on the ground as Carter attempted to cut out the dying flesh. The pain was tremendous.
“I need to keep the wound clean, my prince. It could kill you otherwise,” Carter said before making a snip.
Petir screamed out so loud that it made Sirillia jump. He jolted out of his chair in pain.
Emery slammed his fist against the table in an almighty crash. “Alright, that’s enough! Carter, get out.”
Carter packed up his tools and left a bandage and dressing for Petir to apply before making his way out of the pavilion, wide-eyed.
As the physician left, Ser Yelin Mortimer entered with some guards. Emery gestured for the head of his royal guard to be seated with the rest of his family.
Emery exhaled loudly with frustration, rubbing his forehead as he began speaking with the small group.
“Given our current circumstances, I feel it is
