Chapter 51

The day after Carl and his companions had left Eptidia, the elven boat reached the southern shores of Junction Lake. The sky was covered over with dark, threatening clouds, and a strong wind was blowing from the north. A smaller boat was lowered to the water and the members of Carl's party and their horses were ferried to the bank in three trips. Carl thanked the elves for their assistance and the boat turned back the way it had come.

                They were now in Norena, one of the Luhporian countries. The trees were not evergreen like those in Tenham and were almost completely devoid of foliage. Yellow, orange and red leaves covered the ground and swirled about in the strong wind. They mounted up and Menton lead them south through several miles of sparse, leafless woods until they came across a dirt track. They followed the track as it wound first south, then southeast, for all of that day and the next. However, by late morning of the third day, the dark, ominous clouds threatened to break into storm at any moment. The wind had picked up again and leaves and dirt were flying everywhere, obscuring their vision and getting in their eyes, noses, and mouths.

                “Don't relish the idea of being stuck outside in this storm,” said Menton to Carl, who rode beside him.

                “I agree,” replied the Deinishman. “Do you know of anywhere hereabouts that we can shelter?”

                Menton’s attempt to reply was cut off by a shout that came from up ahead. They reined their horses to a stop and watched as Arno, who had ridden ahead to scout out the land, came galloping back to join them, pointing over his shoulder up the road. “There's horsemen coming, a whole heap of them!”

                “How can they have gotten ahead of us?” demanded Carl gruffly, tired and weary of their pursuers.

                “They’re not amalehqs,” answered Arno.

                “What?!” snapped Menton. “Then who are they, Boy?”

                “They are Luhporians,” said Ella, pointing to a group of horsemen who galloped wildly towards them.

                As they drew closer, Carl was relieved to see that they were not wearing any steel armor, so he decided to wait and see who they were. The riders slowed their horses and came to a halt several paces away. They were most definitely Luhporians; wearing winter cloaks, leather armor, and with swords or axes clipped to their belts. The leader, who was tall and heavy set and with short brown hair, looked over each member of their group with no small amount of suspicion or surprise. At length he spoke. “You lot are the strangest travelling companions. Who are you and where are you going?”

                Carl studied the other man, who had an air about him that let you know instinctively that you could trust him, that he was a man of his word. All the same, Carl chose his words carefully. “We are travellers on our way to Khupur.”

                The Luhporians began to fidget in their saddles, fingering the handles of their sheathed swords and axes. The leader frowned. “You will have to do better than that, Sir. My men and I have been scouring the woods looking for a robber-knight who raided one of my master's villages this morning. For all I know, you could be in league with him.”

                “What?!” shot back Menton angrily, riding forward. “Do we look like we're carrying loot?”

                The man raised his hands. “If you will not tell me who you are, how am I to know otherwise?”

                Arno suddenly rode forward, looking around at the surrounding countryside. “Sir, who is your lord? Because these lands look very familiar to me and I’m sure I have been here before.”

                “We have been here before!” interjected Menton. “When we visited Baron Michael Harpeden.”

                “You know the baron?” asked the man, his face softening.

                “He's a trusted friend of my brother,” replied Arno excitedly.

                “And who is your brother, Lad?” asked the leader, the suspicion fading from his voice.

                “Felix Cheveron.”

                Suddenly the man was all smiles. “Baron Felix Cheveron? So then you must be Arno, his kid brother, and you must be Menton Stoneharrow!”

                “You have heard of us?”

                “Of course,” laughed the man. “I am one of Baron Michael’s knights, and he has spoken of you lot on many occasions. Is he here, further up the road, perhaps?”

                “No,” answered Carl. “He and the rest of his men are still in Tenham.”

                “Serving the Tenhamese against the amalehqs, no doubt,” said the man.

                “Of course,” confirmed Menton.

                “Good for him! Harpeden always said Felix was as stubborn as an ox and would never serve the amalehqs regardless of how lucrative the contract. But fear not, the amalehqs aren’t popular with us either, the murdering, thieving mongrels.” The leader sat back and smiled sheepishly. “Look, sorry if I gave offence, but I've become rather defensive lately with all these robber-knights and their bandits roaming hereabouts. So let me introduce myself – my name is Morris Rabbin.”

                Carl saw no point in continuing to hide their identities, so he introduced himself, Ella and Julie.  Morris greeted them all cordially, before another great gust of wind pelted them with leaves and dirt, causing even the horses to shift about uneasily. “Just a thought,” said Morris after a glance at the ever darkening sky. “Harpeden's castle isn’t far from here, and I know you'd all be welcome. Why don't you come with us and see out the storm in comfort?”

                “We may as well accept the offer, Deinishman,” said Menton, “We won't be able to travel until it blows over anyway.”

                Carl looked at the brewing storm and knew they had no other choice. “Thank you for your generous offer, Morris, we accept.” And with that, Carl and his party fell in to ride with the Luhporians. They rode north two miles and then took a dirt track which lead east towards the Utku River, whereupon it began to rain - great big drops that soaked right through their garments. They spurred their horses to a canter and followed the track as it wound east. Lightening split the sky behind them and the clap of thunder that followed close behind was so loud it hurt their ears.

                Carl was worried that they might not make it to the castle before the rain became a downpour that would drench them completely, when he caught a glimpse of a castle keep towering over the wind swept autumn trees. Moments later they reached the gate-house of the castle, which was actually rather small and in quite a state of disrepair. Battlements were cracked and broken and great cracks could be seen in some of the outer walls. However, it would still provide ample shelter against the storm, and he appreciated the Living One for his timely provision.

                The guards at the gate ignored them as they rode into the bailey, and servants rushed out to take their horses. As Morris and his men dismounted, Carl and his party did the same, quickly removing their belongings from their saddle bags. Morris lead them to the keep’s doors, which opened directly into the main hall. It was poorly lit and smelt dank, so much so that it took Carl a few moments to acclimatise himself to the unpleasant odours. Household servants came forward and after Morris snapped out a series of orders, they relieved the travellers of their belongings and took them upstairs via a staircase on their left, presumably to the room where they would sleep that night.

                “I will fetch the baron,” said Morris, disappearing up the staircase as well.

                “I hope this baron is feeling hospitable, Arno,” said Carl after the minutes dragged on after Morris had left them.

                “He has always been so in the past,” said the lad.

                A few minutes later three people descended the stairs; a broad man in his fifties who had not been treated kindly by the passing years – his too-red face was pock marked, and his grey eyes were pale and darted nervously around the room. As soon as he saw the man, who was surely the baron, Carl regretted coming here. There was something off about him, though he could not put his finger on exactly what it was. The two men who had accompanied him were in their early twenties, probably his sons. One was tall and thin, with a narrow face that was too pale. The other was about Carl's height, well proportioned and muscular, and very handsome.

                Upon spying Arno, the older man laughed and rushed forward to give him a crushing bearhug. “Arno Cheveron! I haven't seen you for ten years and you've gone and grown into a man!”

                Arno returned the hug somewhat hesitantly, but he obviously recognised him. “Hello, Uncle Michael. But I'm not a man yet - I'm only eighteen.”

                “Almost there then,” said the baron as he turned to the dwarf. “Menton, old friend! You’re a sight for sore eyes too, but don’t you ever age? You look exactly the same as the last time I saw you.”

                “Really, then what do you call these grey hairs?” replied the dwarf good naturedly.

                “Oh come now,” laughed the baron. “Last time I saw you, I didn’t have any grey hairs either – now look at me! Now don't just stand there, introduce me to your companions.”

                Excited to introduce his friends, Arno introduced Carl, Ella and Julie. With proper etiquette, Baron Michael kissed the back of Ella's and Julie's hands, who both somehow managed to hide their discomfort, if not revulsion. The baron shook hands with Carl, who found his hand to be cold and clammy – it was like holding a dead fish.

                The baron introduced the two younger men who had accompanied him. “These here are my sons, James, and Robert.” James, the tall slim one, nodded briefly and gave the impression that he wished he was elsewhere. Robert, on the other hand, greeted them warmly, especially Julie, which she obviously did not mind at all.

                “We were just about to eat, so come and join us, and we can catch up on the past ten years,” said the baron as he clapped Arno on the back.

                So they joined the baron, his sons, and Morris at the wooden tables in the rear half of the hall, and ate a rather bland meal. As they conversed, Carl concluded that Baron Michael had fallen on difficult financial times. The baron, meanwhile, pressed Arno and Menton about what they and the Cheveron company had been doing, and was especially interested in the war in Tenham. He made it clear that although Norena was allied to the amalehqs, he had no love for them and hoped desperately that Kemakohdu would be defeated. He had heard many rumours about the war in Tenham, but was finally able to hear first hand accounts. He was curious as to what they were doing in Norena, but did not press the issue when they responded vaguely.

                They spent the afternoon talking, and then ate the evening together while entertained by the baron's aging minstrel, who unfortunately rarely hit the right notes. Ella, who had experienced the outstanding musical talents of the elves, found the experience more than a little frustrating.

                After the meal The five travellers bade their guests good night and retired to their guest room upstairs. The room had small windows with wooden shutters which faced north, but with the storm outside the room was quite dark. Many wooden crates were stacked haphazardly against one wall, and straw was strewn haphazardly about the floor. There were eight beds in the room, which amounted to no more than wooden boards with dirty mattresses stuffed with straw.

                And the room stank.

                “Rats,” said Menton, once the servants had gone. “Keep your clothes in your bags tonight.”

                They hung their bags on the wooden racks set against one wall, and Carl wished yet again that they had not come here. He hoped the storm would blow over quickly so they could leave and continue on their journey. Spending more than one day here would a most unpleasant experience. He went to one of the small windows and watched the storm, which raged incessantly with pelting rain, constant lightning strikes that momentarily illuminated an almost black sky, and loud claps of thunder that reverberated through the castle walls.

                “The walls are not going to fall down on us, are they?” asked Ella, who had come to join him at the window.

                “No, these castles are quite sturdy, even ones like this,” assured Carl.

                Ella screwed up her dainty nose. “I would rather sleep in the stables than up here, the room reeks of mould, as well as the rats.”

                Carl laughed. “You do get used to it.”

                “We will see about that,” she replied unsurely.

They awoke the next morning stiff and tired, having not slept well at all. Rain had dripped from small cracks in the ceiling all night, and rats could be heard scampering about and squeaking. Ella had never slept in such dismal conditions.

                They dressed and went downstairs, and were told by Robert that the Baron had ridden off with his bailiff to see to an urgent matter that had arisen in another part of his demesne, and would be back in the evening. Carl wondered what type of matter would be urgent enough to require one to ride outside during such a storm, which had abated slightly, but not enough to warrant their continuing their journey.

                Robert gave them leave to come and go as they pleased throughout the castle. Carl and Ella practised sword drills in the main hall, Menton disappeared and was not seen again until mealtimes. Arno, on the other hand, was depressed. When they had woken this morning he tried to talk to Julie, but as usual, she had answered him in short, clipped sentences and he got the hint.

                The forebodingly dark sky and wet and dreary castle did little to improve his mood, and Baron Michael was nothing like he remembered him. He had been like a favored uncle, but now he gave him the creeps. And what was wrong with his eyes, anyway? Why did they keep darting all about at everything?

                As he wandered about the castle, Arno found himself day dreaming that he would do something that would impress Julie sufficiently to gain her attention. He imagined that he reached the Immortal’s Citadel and slew a dozen amalehqs as they tried to kill her. He pictured her running to him and throwing her arms around his neck, impressed by his prowess and bravery.

                Bored and listless, he went back down to the main hall and was looking carefully over the armor and weapons hanging from the walls, when he heard voices coming from the passageway outside the hall. He walked softly over to the passageway and stopped just outside the doorway. He recognised Julie's voice immediately, and guessed the second belonged to Robert, the baron's more handsome son.

                “...so you are a knight, then?” Julie was asking, as though genuinely interested.

                “I am,” was Robert’s confident reply, “I was knighted eight years ago, in fact.”

                “I always find knights so fascinating,” said Julie. “Please, tell me of your adventures.”

                Anger and hopelessness welled up in Arno’s heart as he slipped away from the doorway. He hated being eighteen. He despised it, he loathed it. How he wished he was twenty-one and a knight, especially now that he knew that Julie liked them so! She obviously liked Carl, and now she was fawning over Robert. Why was life so cruel? Why couldn’t she see that he liked her too?

                Dejected and angry, Arno retired upstairs to their guest room. He threw himself on his straw filled mattress, and day dreamt that he was a great knight travelling the countryside in the name of justice. He fought and defeated robber-knights, he won every jousting tournament and even defeated the knights of Tenham. And he dreamt that Julie was so impressed by his exploits that she fell in love with him.

Near midday the rain intensified, soon becoming a deluge accompanied by great claps of thunder and lightning, just as it had on the previous day.        The castle's master, Baron Michael, returned with his bailiff in the afternoon, and was clearly not in a good mood, and disappeared upstairs immediately.

                Everyone gathered for the evening meal shortly afterwards, with Robert entertaining the guests with lively discussion, since his father was morose and would not be drawn into conversation.

                When they woke the following morning, Menton tried to rise from his straw bed but collapsed, complaining of feeling strangely giddy. Ella laid her hand on his brow and informed them that he had a fever, although she could not ascertain the nature of his illness.

                Arno and Ella tended to him to the best of their knowledge, but the dwarf’s fever continued to rise, and slipped in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day. Carl spent most of the day pacing about the castle in agitation, fervent to resume their journey as the storm had abated now. They had only three weeks to go, but were unable to do so because Menton was the only one who knew the way.

                Menton’s fever finally broke five days later, on Saturday. He rose from his bed, bathed, and ate, but was still too weak to ride. The next three days showed miraculous improvements in the his health as he consumed greater and greater amounts of food and drink, and finally on Tuesday he announced he would be fit to travel again on the morrow.

                When Carl informed the baron they would be leaving the next morning, the baron surprised him by saying he would help them with provisions for the journey. Impressed by the man’s generosity, even though he was clearly in financial straights, Carl offered the him five silver pounds in gratitude for his hospitality. He had expected him to refuse the money, and was surprised when he took it immediately, if not a little too quickly.

                That evening the five travellers and the members of Baron Michael’s household gathered in the main hall for the evening meal, as usual. Carl and Ella sat on the baron's right, beside his son James, while the others sat on his left, with Julie sitting beside Robert, due to no little effort on her part.

                They had finished eating the first course and were sipping on decanters of ale while waiting for the next course to be brought in, when Carl saw Morris rise from his seat and walk casually over to the keep’s wooden doors that lead to the courtyard outside.

                Morris meet his gaze, smiled disarmingly, and wrenched open the doors to allow thirteen knights in very dark grey or black armor to stride confidently into the hall.

                Amalehqs!

Chapter 50

Wearing his dark-grey suit of armor, King Kemakohdu sat upon his black warhorse, studying the walls of Longford from a distance of three-hundred paces. With him were Blair Ruhr, Bosna Dohmiah, and many of his other senior lords and commanders. He stared at the locked gates of the southern gate-house, from which the Tenhamese traitor’s body still hung.

                Kemakohdu turned to Ruhr. “Are you telling me that the army has run out of food and supplies, Ruhr?”

                The amalehq duke nodded hesitantly, fearing for his life. “That is correct, Highness.”

                “And the foragers?” asked the king.

                “They report that the surrounding countryside has been stripped bare by the Selbers, and all the wells poisoned. All of our attempts to penetrate deeper into Tenham to obtain supplies have been rebuffed by the Selbers,” replied Ruhr.

                “So we are unable to maintain the siege, and cannot take the city, now that the Tenhamese traitor is dead and the Dragonfire Cannon has been destroyed. Do you agree?” asked the king.

                “I concur, Sire. We must retreat until we can re-establish our supply lines,” agreed the duke.

                “And that is exactly what we shall do – we will break off the siege and retreat, leading the Tenhamese to conclude that we have conceded defeat,” said the king. “Which is exactly what I want them to think. We cannot destroy them while they are holed up in their city, but once we retreat, they will come chasing after us, thinking they can destroy us. And once we have re-established supply, I will turn our army around and finish the job we started at Devonhale.” Kemakohdu turned to face all of his commanders. “Tell all your men that we break camp tonight. We will retreat to Gobourn in southern Tenham and meet up with Narder and all of the troops of the ninth and eleventh corps, which are currently stationed at Devereaux with enough supplies to feed the entire army.”

                                                                                *              *              *

The next day, which was the eighth of October, a shout went up from the city walls at the crack of dawn - a shout that was quickly carried throughout the entire city, sending its population into spontaneous festivity and merry making. “The amalehqs have gone!” the people shouted over and over.

                Felix, Sigmund and the rest of the men of the Cheveron Company made their way to the southern walls. Upon climbing to the battlements they were met with quite a scene, for the amalehq siege lines were strangely quite, akin to a town that had been the victim of the Plague.

                In their haste to retreat during the night, the amalehqs had left behind their catapults and towers, and even some their larger bombards. And amidst the abandoned siege lines and the sprawling camp behind it rode many companies of Selbers, who were prodding everything with their lances so that no stone was left unturned. Scores of bodies were found, both amalehqs and their human allies, having died from starvation or battle wounds that had become infected. Many others had been left behind because they were too sick or weak to move.

                Longford’s gates were finally flung open and the city folk came forth in droves and wrecked everything in the amalehq camp that they could get their hands on. They also slaughtered without mercy the sick and wounded enemy until King Maldon sent out troops to stop them. Doctors and nurses were despatched from the city to help care for these sick and wounded amalehqs, many who had not eaten for days if not weeks.

                Selber scouts reported that the amalehq army was not using the Great Northern Road as expected, but had retreated southeast to Harclay. The King immediately commanded the Tenhamese army to pursue and destroy it. The king then announced that he would remain in Longford, and gave command of the army to Prince Richard.

                While Felix and his men quickly packed their bags and saddled their horses, the mercenary captain was surprised when he realised that the prophecies given to Carl and Ella had come true, and this amazed him, for he had never placed stock in prophecies. Yet after only several weeks of siege, the amalehqs were on the retreat. He searched his mind to recall what else the man Immanuel had told Carl and Ella, and then recalled that he had said that Carl had until the twenty-ninth of October to rescue the elf princess so that the elven army could change sides and help the Tenhamese army defeat the amalehqs, who would soon go on the offensive after that date. A faint hope blossomed in Felix's heart. Perhaps Carl, Menton, and his brother had survived the Immortals after all. In fact, the twenty-ninth of this month was not far away, so Felix would soon know if they had succeeded in their quest, and which of them had survived.

                Thinking such thoughts, the mercenary baron oversaw getting his unit ready for the pursuit.

*              *              *

The Tenhamese army pressed hard on the heals of the retreating amalehqs, keen to catch and destroy them. And as the days passed, Felix was shocked at how cold the nights were becoming – it felt like winter had arrived, although it was still the middle of autumn. When they woke each morning they found frost covering the grass, and small lakes and water holes covered with thin films of ice. Perhaps God was favouring the Tenhamese, for they had ample supplies and warm clothes, while the amalehqs had neither.

                And then to the amazement of all, Prince Terrance Whitgrave rejoined the army on the twenty-fourth of October. Although still pale, he had recovered from his wounds sufficiently to ride and wield a sword. The Selbers had tried to convince him to rest for another month, but his keen desire to return to the army was too strong. He was welcomed back to the army as a hero, as all had heard of his exploits in destroying the Dragonfire Cannon. The Household Contingent was especially pleased that he had returned. Felix and his men were delighted to have their employer back, and hoped that he would not be as impetuous as he was previously, for there were less of them to protect him now.

                On the twenty-sixth, Richard ordered the army to shod all the horses hooves with spiked shoes. And although this took half a day, it was a necessary delay, for it greatly improved the horses and horse teams ability to move over ground that was becoming increasingly slippery as each day passed.

                The Tenhamese troops also took out their winter cloaks and wrapped them about themselves in the daytime and to use as blankets at night. For although the days continued to grow colder, the nights were freezing now. Fortunately, the Tenhamese were used to such weather, though not this early in autumn! The commanders also made sure their troops did not get too close to the fires they made each night, less frost bitten toes and fingers were to turn gangrenous.

                The next day the real cold began, with flurries of snow beginning in the morning, something unheard of in October And as the Tenhamese continued to dog the heals of the retreating amalehq army, the snow fell more and more heavily, covering the ground in a thick white blanket. And as the army marched, they passed the bodies of amalehqs and men lying dead on the road, having died from a combination of starvation and the cold. Many others had been slain by the Selbers, who continued to harass them every step of the way. All of the enemy dead had been stripped of their clothes by their comrades. As they continued. The number of enemy dead increased, which now included a great number of horses and countless discarded weapons.

                                                                                *              *              *

On third of November the Household Troops, who formed the Tenhamese vanguard, were ten miles from ford over the Manners River which lead to the burnt out town of Restwolde.

                Prince Terrance and Felix, along  Prince Richard and his staff, rode at the head of the long winding columns of Tenhamese knights, behind which came the rest of the army. Horses trudged slowly through snow that continued to fall heavily every day, while riders clutched thick winter cloaks tightly about themselves.

                As they continued towards Restwolde, they passed hundreds and hundreds of amalehqs and their human allies, frozen to death and half buried in the snow, stripped of all woollen or linen garments - only their weapons and armor had been left behind. The number of dead horses and pack animals was just as alarming, and Felix wondered how the amalehq army could continue to retreat in such conditions. What drove them on, why did they not just surrender?

                “A rider approaches!” declared Baron Fitzwilliam, pointing to their left.

                Felix twisted about in his saddle and saw a solitary rider on a great white horse riding directly towards them. The man wore thick linen and woollen garments, and a great fawn colored cloak billowed out behind him.

                “I have never seen a horse the likes of that one,” said Terrance in awe, “so he cannot be one of ours.”

                 “He is in a very great hurry to reach us,” replied Felix, “I wonder who he is and what news he brings.”

                The Tenhamese lords and knights reined their horses to a stop and waited for the rider, who continued to gallop towards them until only a few paces away, and then brought his horse to an abrupt stop. Several of the Tenhamese lords drew their swords and moved their horses to stand between the stranger and Prince Richard.

                The rider swept back his hood and the Tenhamese lords gasped in surprise – he was an elf!

                “I seek Prince Richard Goudelancourt,” panted the elf in the common tongue, though with a thick accent.

                Prince Richard nudged his horse past those who attempted to shield him from possible danger. “I am he.”

                The elf nodded in acknowledgement and spoke hurriedly as though racing against time. “Highness, I have ridden without halt since Monday morning to bring you a message from Count Cantelou, the commander of the elven army on Tenhamese soil.”

                Hope blossomed within Richard’s heart as he recalled what Carl had told him before setting off on a mission to rescue the elven Princess. “Very well, please continue.”

                The handsome elf, who struggled to regain his breath, said, “Highness, Count Eldryc Cantelou sends you word that the elf army of seven thousand has abandoned the amalehq cause and now marches with all speed to the town of Kendal, where he intends to cut off the retreating amalehq army and trap it between us.”

                All the Tenhamese princes and lords began speaking at once, so Prince Richard had to shout to make himself heard. “Gentlemen, please!” Turning back to the elf, he asked, “Kind sir, what has transpired to allow the elves to change sides? Was not Princess Taeisia taken by the amalehqs to one of their strongholds to prevent the elves from taking such an action?”

                Having finally regained his breath, the elf beamed with joy. “That was indeed the case, Highness, but is no longer. Last Monday morning, Sister Taeisia was delivered to Count Cantelou, right here in Tenham, and she instructed us to throw off our ties to the amalehqs and serve the Tenhamese crown. She assures us that Kemakohdu will soon go on the offensive again, and without the help of the elves, Tenham will fall.”

                The Tenhamese lords starting arguing, shouting, even asking questions of the elf, but Richard silenced them again with a wave of his hand. “Then I presume Sir Carl Hardcourt of Dein succeeded in his mission?” he asked the elf.

                “Yes, Highness,” replied the elf, apparently surprised that Richard knew of this. “A Deinish knight, Carl Hardcourt, and his companions, were the ones who rescued the Princess and brought her to us.”

                The Tenhamese princes and lords looked at Richard in amazement, for although he obviously knew of this quest, he had never breathed a word of it to any of them. And while the nobles spoke excitedly amongst themselves, Felix rode over to the elf. “Sir, may I ask how many of Sir Carl's companions survived? Do you see them yourself?”

                “I did not see them arrive myself, Sir, but I heard that those who rescued Sister Taeisia numbered less than five,” answered the elf.

                Felix felt icy tendons of fear grip his stomach, and he realised that his brother and Menton could well be dead. Fifteen had set out, but less than five had returned?

                “We knew it was a mission fraught with danger,” said Prince Terrance, who had joined him. “But let us not lose hope yet.

                Felix nodded, but it was not hope that he felt, but a terrible feeling of dread that crept slowly through his gut.

                Prince Richard instructed his squires to tend to the elf messenger's needs, and while they lead the elf away the good news was passed back down the army, and soon the entire Tenhamese army knew that the elves had joined them. In a matter of minutes the Tenhamese soldiers could contain their joy no longer and they began to sing, praising the Living One and Saint Thomas for their miraculous provision.

Chapter 49

Early the following morning, in response to Prince Phelip Whitgrave’s demands, King Maldon Knightwin held court in the grandiose Great Hall of his palace in Longford. The king sat on his throne, which was on a dais at the north end of the hall. At his left stood two advisers, and on his right stood Sir Ralegh Cosington, as the Chancellor of the House of Lords. On both sides of the Great Hall were multi-tiered rows of wooden benches, and upon these seats sat dozens of Tenhamese princes, lords, nobles and guild masters.

                “Court is in session,” declared Ralegh Cosington. “Prince Phelip Whitgrave, it is understood that you have an urgent grievance of some of form to bring before his Majesty, the esteemed King Maldon Knightwin. You may now come forward.” Neither Cosington nor anyone else knew the nature of Prince Phelip’s grievance, so all leaned forward in eager anticipation, wondering what was afoot.

                Prince Phelip Whitgrave walked to stand before the king, and bowed respectfully. Felix Cheveron and Sir Fabian Coleville had accompanied him, one on his left, and the other on his right. Tusak waited in the antechamber outside the hall should he be required, while Sabina and Boe remained hidden in the Whitgrave townhouse.

                “My dear Cousin,” Prince Phelip said to the king, “it has been feared by all that my son Terrance was killed in his assault upon the amalehq Dragonfire Cannon. It is therefore with great pleasure that I can report that my son is not dead but alive!”

                All chatter from the assembled princes and lords instantly ceased as all heads turned to look on with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. Cosington’s only visible reaction was to widen his eyes in alarm.

                King Maldon leaned forward hopefully, for Prince Terrance was very dear to his heart, and needed in the war against the amalehqs. “This is wonderful news, Cousin! But where has he been this past week since he destroyed the Dragonfire Cannon?”

                “He was gravely wounded, Sire, but was brought back from the brink of death by the ministrations of the Selbers, in whose camp he currently resides.”

                “For the past week?” said the king, frowning. “Then why did not the Selbers inform us of this?”

                Felix glanced at Cosington, and saw that he was leaning forward now, hanging off every word spoken by the prince, clearly shocked by what he was hearing.

                “The Selbers did not inform us of this, your Majesty,” called out Phelip in a loud voice, “for it was not the amalehqs who wounded my son and killed his men.”

                “If not the amalehqs, then whom?” demanded the king.

                “It was by Tenhamese hands that he received a crossbow bolt to the chest - he and all of his men.”

                Gasps of shock and disbelief erupted from dignitaries throughout the hall, and the colour drained completely from Cosington’s face.

                “That’s right!” shouted Prince Phelip, opening his arms to take in all present. “Your Majesty, one of the lords in this very room sent twenty of his own crossbowmen to waylay and murder my son on his way back from his assault on the Dragonfire Cannon!”

                The chattering from those present began louder, many arguing and pointing fingers, trying to guess who it was that had committed this most heinous crime.

                “These are serious allegations, Cousin,” said the king. “Do you know the identity of this lord?”

                Prince Phelip looked at Cosington and said, “Your Majesty, it is the same lord who one week ago abducted the Lady Sabina Vipont from Sir Fabian Coleville’s townhouse and had her taken to his castle! Sire, I speak of Sir Ralegh Cosington!”

                At this many Tenhamese lords and nobles leapt to their feet in indignation, for Cosington was a very influential man and had many supporters. But many others similarly hated or resented him, and quickly came to Phelip's defence. An uproar filled the Great Hall.

                “Silence!” bellowed Cosington, and all fell quiet. Cosington turned to the king and pointed at Phelip. “Your Majesty, Prince Phelip slanders my name with baseless lies! Where is his proof? Neither his son nor the Lady Sabina are present to back up his outrageous tale!”

                “Cousin, I can produce several witnesses to testify…” said Prince Phelip, shouting in an attempt to make his voice heard above the voices raised in debate throughout the hall.

                “King Maldon,” said Cosington, his voice carrying easily over the din, “it is well known that the Whitgraves have been bitter enemies of the Cosingtons for generations. All of my attempts to end this feud have been rebuffed, and now this – this baseless attack on my family’s honour! I demand immediate recompense!”

                King Maldon lifted his hand and all fell quiet. He looked doubtfully at Phelip. “Cousin, the Chancellor does make a point, for the feud between your two families is well known. Are you are being entirely objective in this? Could your allegations be the result of jumping to hasty conclusions?”

                Sir Fabian forward whispered in Phelip's ear. “Do not let him change the topic! Tell the King of Cosington’s plan to storm the gatehouse and admit the amalehqs to the city!”

                “Your Majesty, I have proof that Ralegh Cosington is in collaboration with the amalehqs! He has provided them with…” began the aged prince.

                “Your Majesty, I refuse to listen to any more of this slander!” shouted Cosington, cutting off the prince. I demand the right to defend my name by a trial of arms - let this family feud be settled for once and for all.”

                Maldon looked doubtfully at his Chancellor and Spy Master, “I do not know if I should allow that, Ralegh, as I have commanded that all feuding between lords be put aside until after the war.”

                “Highness, he has accused me of treason before the entire court! The whole nation will hear of these accusations within days? It is my right to prove my innocence by trial of arms.”

                Felix watched the bull of a man turn the King's ear from what he needed to hear and so easily sidestep the allegations. His anger boiling, he spoke quietly into Prince Phelip Whitgrave’s ear. “Accept the challenge, Highness.”

                Phelip glanced at him incredulously. “That would be signing my death warrant!”

                Felix shook his head. “Accept the challenge and say you will be represented by your champion.”

                “What on Farwold are you suggesting, Felix? My son, who would be my champion, is in no condition to fight,” replied the Prince in frustration.

                “I will be your champion, Highness.”

                “You think you can take him?” asked the prince sceptically.

                “I’ve spent the past twenty years in the field fighting amalehqs, while he has spent those years behind a desk getting others to do his dirty work for him. So yes, I can take him. Now quickly, accept his challenge before the King changes his mind!”

                “Ralegh Cosington, I accept your challenge!” declared Phelip out at the top of his voice.

                As everyone in the hall fell silent in shock, King Maldon glanced fearfully from one belligerent to the other, realising that the situation had gotten out of hand; and believing that he had just lost one of his most beloved princes.

                Cosington's face lit up with triumph. Finally, after all these years he had manoeuvred Phelip Whitgrave’s life into his hands. “Very well, Prince Phelip Whitgrave, name the venue and the format of the duel.”

                “My champion, who will represent my family name in the absence of my son, will name the venue and format.”

                “Your champion? And who, pray tell, would that be?” Cosington demanded angrily as the haughty, triumphant expression on his face flickered and vanished. Producing a champion to represent Phelip robbed Cosington of his victory, even should he slay the champion. It was Phelip’s life that he was after, but this way, he was beyond his grasp.        

                “That would be me!” announced Felix as he stepped forward. “Felix Cheveron, of the Cheveron Company, in the employ of Prince Terrance Whitgrave. We fight right here, right now, with the sword only.”

                Revelation dawned on Cosington's face as he realised who Felix was, for it was his brother who had robbed his squire of the marriage contract to the Lady Sabina. A contract that had taken immense amounts of planning and strategy to get signed by Sir Fabian. “So be it!” he declared.

                While Phelip and Sir Fabian moved back to stand in front of the tiered seating, Cosington walked over to one of his men to fetch his sword. The man was Grange, another one of his spies. “Have you found Brian?” asked Cosington.

                “No Sir, there has been neither sight nor sound of him or of the twelve guards rostered on to guard the eastern side-gate last night,” replied the spy, glancing over at Felix Cheveron, who stood alone in the centre of the Great Hall, waiting for Cosington to join him.

                “Something is very wrong here,” said Cosington as he began to strap on the sword belt which Grange had handed him. “First David and now Brian disappear. And suddenly Phelip Whitgrave knows about Sabina, my attempt to assassinate his son, and even my dealings with the amalehqs?”

                “I concur, Sir,” agreed Grange, “It would appear that another spy network is at work here.”

                “Same conclusion I came to. And it all revolves around that damn mercenary. Killing him now will be the first step in stamping out their network. Now, did you put poison on my blade?”

                Grange nodded. “I did, Sir. Take note, however, that the poison will cause the mercenary to begin choking in ten seconds after you cut him, so you must kill him before anyone notices - you must not let anyone suspect there was poison on your sword.”

                “Ten seconds? That will be easy. Now, to end this nonsense,” said Cosington as he turned and strode confidently towards Felix Cheveron who awaited him.

                The princes, nobles and lords assembled in the hall had been arguing or talking somewhat fiercely amongst themselves, but fell silent when Cosington came to stand several paces away from Felix, his imposing bulk and confident posture radiating an atmosphere of invincibility. Even the king sat forward on his throne, relieved on one hand that Prince Phelip’s life was no longer in danger, but alarmed that the situation had gotten so out of hand. He had forbidden duelling, yet somehow Cosington had manipulated him into allowing this scene to play out. And to what gain? Once Cosington slew the mercenary, and of that the king had no doubt, they were back to square one, with accusations from Prince Phelip still up in the air.

                Cries of “Cosington!” rang out from his supporters, not that he was particularly popular, or that they actually wanted him to win, but due to the fact that many of the lords present were indebted to him or black mailed by him in some way or another.

                “My spies have informed me that amalehq Immortals were despatched to eliminate the party who went off to rescue the elven princess,” said Cosington, speaking quietly so that Felix was the only one who could hear him. “Is it true that your brother was amongst them, Baron?”

                Felix looked at his adversary’s triumphant smirk and refused to let the painful barb about the almost certain death of his brother – at Cosington’s hands – get to him. He held the other man’s stare and relaxed, ready and waiting for Cosington to make the first move.

                Finally, keen to rid himself of this troublesome mercenary, Cosington suddenly swept out his broadsword and swung it at Felix’s head with all of his strength.

                 Felix drew his sword with practised ease and parried the blow with such force that both blades rang out, notched. And while the impact of Felix’s parry momentarily threw the big man off balance, Felix continued the parry in a circle around behind his head and then brought his blade down, slashing Cosington from collarbone to hip. And with that, Felix stepped back and sheathed his blade.

                With blood pouring from the lethal wound, Cosington could barely comprehend that he had been defeated so quickly, and by an adversary he was confident he would crush. And seeing the mercenary captain standing before him with his weapon sheathed caused his anger to boil. Remembering then that he only had to nick Felix’s skin with his poisoned blade, he lifted his sword high to strike him down, but his strength suddenly left him and he collapsed to the stones with a great thud.

                Throughout the Great Hall, from the king to the nobility to the palace guards, every mouth hung open in shock, for not one of them had expected this outcome. The seemingly invincible spy master, Sir Ralegh Cosington, had been slain by an unknown mercenary captain, and with only two strokes of his blade!

                And while they stared in shock, they noticed a veiled woman stride confidently towards the slain spy master. Thinking that she could be his mistress or a relative, all gasped in surprise when the lady reached him and drew back her veil, revealing herself to be Sabina Vipont. Even Prince Phelip was astonished for he had told her to remain at his townhouse where his men could protect her.

                “Lady Sabina?” asked the king.

                “Your Majesty,” replied the lady as she curtsied politely. She turned to Felix and said, “On behalf of my betrothed, Prince Terrance Whitgrave, and myself, I thank you, brave baron, for avenging the death of my brother.”

                “You know the where abouts of Prince Terrance, then?” asked King Maldon, glancing at Phelip and Fabian Coleville. Perhaps they had been telling the truth all along.

                “He is recuperating from his terrible wounds in a Selber camp, your Highness, wounds he received at the hands of Ralegh Cosington’s men,” she said.

                “So all of the accusations Prince Phelip brought against Ralegh are true?” said the king, beginning to realise how badly he had erred.

                Sabina pulled a sheaf of letters from her sleeve. “Yes, and much more. Here are letters taken from Cosington’s own desk in Avenel Castle, all addressed to him and all signed by one Kurohn Seidhere, the ex-ambassador to Tenham. The content of these communiqués, Highness, is treason.”

                “Court is adjourned!” declared King Maldon upon hearing Sabina’s charges against Sir Ralegh. It seemed that his chancellor had fallen to depths far below what he had just now begun to suspect, and he did not want such knowledge to be made public, not yet, at least. He called Prince Phelip, Sir Fabian, and the Lady Sabina over to him. “Come, let us adjourn to my antechamber where you can bring before me all of Ralegh’s treasonous actions in a less public place.”

As the king withdrew with these three in tow, the scene in the Great Hall descended into utter chaos as the princes and lords present discussed all that had just transpired. First Cosington was slain and then revealed to be a traitor to the crown? 

                                                                                *              *              *

It was nearing midday on the fifth day since the death of Sir Ralegh Cosington. A full amalehq division under the command of the Duke of Unellsur, Blair Ruhr, was currently assaulting several wall sections on Longford's eastern side. Almost three thousand amalehqs, Dinglians, and Dharnians participated in the assault, armed with ladders, grappling hooks, and three wooden siege towers built especially for the assault. So far, the attack was being contained by the Tenhamese defenders.

                But of more significance was the body of two thousand mounted amalehq knights who approached Longford’s southern gatehouse under the command of Prince Bosna Dohmiah. They brought no scaling ladders or battering rams with them, as though they were expecting the gates to somehow open on their own as they approached.

                At two hundred paces Dohmiah could see very few defenders upon the walls, just a few dozen militia crossbowmen manning the gatehouse and the walls to either side. That the gates were not open yet did not worry Dohmiah, for in his mind he envisaged the soldiers of the Tenhamese traitor Ralegh Cosington slaughtering the militia defending the gates. They continued to approach, and the distance shrank to one hundred and then seventy-five paces.

                The few Tenhamese militia crossbowmen had begun to shoot at them from the range of a hundred paces, loosing heavy crossbow bolts into the dense mass of amalehq knights, wounding or killing several of them. At fifty paces Dohmiah held up his armoured gauntlet, bringing the large formation to a halt. Something was wrong, the gates should have been opened by now, and Cosington’s men should have slain the crossbowmen atop the gatehouse. But then again, if Cosington’s attempt to take the gatehouse had failed, why were so few militia defending it?

                And as if in response to his unspoken questions, a body was suddenly thrown over the battlements of the gatehouse directly above the ominously closed gates. Strung up by the neck, the body hung there motionless, an obvious message to the approaching amalehqs. The body was of a large Tenhanese man. His clothes were soaked with blood, and he was very dead.

                “No!” exclaimed Kurohn Seihdere, who rode at Dohmiah’s side. “It is Ralegh Cosington – our plans have been discovered!”

                And at that very moment, hundreds of Tenhamese crossbowmen and dismounted knights jumped up from where they had been hiding behind the battlements of the gatehouse and walls to either side. This time hundreds of crossbows sang their songs of death and dozens of amalehq knights and their mounts went down, some struck several times.

                “Damn, damn, damn!” shouted Dohmiah. “This was to be our moment of triumph!”

                Seihdere reached over and gripped his armoured forearm. “We must withdraw, Dohmiah!”

                Aware that his knights were sitting targets as they sat stationary on their horses a mere fifty paces from the walls, he reluctantly turned to his herald. “Give the order to withdraw!”