“Very well, King Grimwulf is unavailable at the moment. As his chief advisor, my orders are to dispatch five hundred men to assist Tholla. Have the spineless lieutenant who sent you command them. What was his name?”
“Finor, sir.”
“Yes, tell Lieutenant Finor that those are the king’s orders,” Callis said.
The soldier nodded assent and backed out of the room. Callis was still full of cold rage, having denied himself the pleasure of killing the man who had interrupted him. He would have to start the ritual over and hope that he was able to complete it before Grimwulf awoke. There was no telling what the Duke’s mood would be. Their last conversation had made it plain that Grimwulf no longer trusted him. This time Callis took the precaution of posting a guard at the door with the orders that nothing disturb him for an hour.
Callis returned to the bedroom where he had left Grimwulf and Ahem.
Duke Grimwulf was awake, standing by Ahem’s bed, looking down at him. The duke’s brow was furrowed, his expression puzzled. He looked up at Callis when the priest entered.
“What has been going on? Who is this corpse? Why is he in here?” Grimwulf asked.
Callis kept his face neutral. “My Lord, this is the doctor who helped me when I was ill. He tried to assist us and was slain by the usurper’s henchmen. What do you remember?”
“I was fighting goblins. We won and I returned here,” he said.
“You don’t remember being struck from behind?”
“No.”
“It was a goblin stone. You were knocked unconscious just as you arrived back. You have been unconscious for much of the day. How does your head feel?” Callis asked.
Grimwulf rubbed it and shrugged. “It feels fine. Not even a bump. What has been happening here?”
“The usurper, Dexter, is still at large, though he has been contained. Tabor Till is personally leading a force into the castle to capture him. Most of the castle is ours, the remnants of the enemy force have fled into the old portion of the castle.”
Grimwulf stared at Callis for a long moment, as if weighing each word individually. Callis was ready for anything. The Duke’s last words to his advisor was to order him back to Bleakmoor. Would he recall that now?
“I will go out and review the situation for myself,” said Grimwulf. “Have this corpse removed from my quarters.”
“Of course, Sire.”
****
Lieutenant Finor was the third son of the Earl of Whitelake. He was a hard worker, but considered dull. His father had paid a fairly hefty price for his son’s commission. And Finor had done pretty well. He was adept at taking orders, just not so good at issuing them.
So as he approached the place where Colonel Tholla’s men were busy fighting the unknown force, Finor was fidgeting nervously on his horse. It was silly, he told himself, even without his reinforcements there were several hundred more Pozzelbian troops than enemy.
“Sir,” said one of Finor’s sergeants. “Something doesn’t look right. I can’t see Colonel Tholla anywhere. His standard is flying there. But I don’t see the colonel.”
“I hope nothing has happened to him,” said Finor.
“Sir, there’s something wrong with that battle. I don’t know what it is, but my instincts are telling me to be careful.”
“Your caution is noted, but unnecessary, sergeant. What is wrong is that our men are being attacked by a band of unkempt woodsmen. Brigands by the look of them. We’ll send our cavalry to cut off the wood line, while our infantry drives through to meet up with Tholla’s men,” Finor said.
“But sir, that will put the cavalry’s backs to the forest,” protested the sergeant.
“Yes and it will cut off the enemy’s retreat. Won’t it?”
Staying safely back from the action himself with a small contingent of aides, not including the overly critical sergeant, Lieutenant Finor watched as his orders were carried out. The battle was taking place on a section of the road where woods sat to the north and the far northern shore of the lake was not too far to the south, close to two miles from the castle. The fighting was all hand to hand, as far as Finor could see. There were men from both sides on the ground. The action appeared rather static; there was little of the franticness that Finor usually associated with battle. He attributed that to the fact that he was simply watching, he had never been in command before and would usually be in the thick of things carrying out his orders and relaying them to his men.
The infantry reached the perimeter of the battle at the same time that the cavalry, having circled around, arrived in position to cut off any retreat into the woods. The infantry seemed to penetrate into the heart of the conflict with ease.
Lieutenant Finor could not believe what happened next.
He watched in horror as Tholla’s men joined with the enemy fighters and began to attack his troops. Even the dead rose up alive and cut off the footmen’s retreat. From the woods, archers attacked his cavalry, sowing confusion, just before Tholla’s cavalry broke off and attacked. One group of horsemen diverged from the main body and came riding right for the lieutenant and his aides.
“Sir, we should retreat,” said a sergeant with some urgency.
Finor was frozen—caught between the instinct to run, the reluctance to abandon his men, who were obviously beaten only minutes after they had engaged, and the shock of the defeat and the treachery that had effected it. His aides were not so torn; turning their mounts, they fled, leaving Finor to be overtaken. In moments, he was surrounded and alone. He threw down his sword and surrendered. He allowed himself to be brought forward and ordered his men, those who had not already done so, to surrender as well.
Lieutenant Finor was taken to the commander of the enemy force. It was not Colonel Tholla, though he learned a short time later that the Colonel was there, but also a prisoner. The commander of the masquerading Pozzelbians was a Lieutenant Porknoy, an Earmunder in the service of the usurper, Dexter. The woodsmen, he learned, were led by a man named Jalos, an old, leathery-looking man. But he was leading only in the absence of another. Finor was told that this other person was actually King Theof, the legend. They presented an old man to Finor then and told him that this was another of the legendary Four Kings, King Jeremiah. It seemed as though they were hoping to persuade Finor that he was on the wrong side. It was pointless; those were just more facts that his stunned brain could not accept. He had been given his orders by a superior and that was the important thing. He knew which side he belonged to by who was issuing the orders and, at least for now, there would be no variation of that.
For Porknoy, things could not have turned out better. The mock battle had allowed them to reduce the enemy force at the castle by another five hundred men with almost no losses of his own. Again, there was the problem of dispensing with the prisoners, and there were many of those. Most of the Pozzelbian regulars had quickly realized that their position was hopeless and had surrendered, even before their officer had ordered them to do so. In this regard, Theof’s men had come in handy. So close to the castle, Porknoy had not wanted to release them, even unarmed with promises. But the woodsman, in just a few hours time, had been able to fashion several wooden cages. The prisoners were secured in these, after having been relieved of their weapons and uniforms, and Porknoy was able to guard them with just about fifty men. It was a tight fit, he had not been able to predict with one hundred percent accuracy how many troops would be sent in relief and time had been limited, but they managed to get all of the prisoners inside of the makeshift cells, which were located in the woods out of sight of the castle.
The next part was a gamble. They had staged this mock battle near enough to Pozzelby Castle that it could be seen by someone watching from the walls or a tower, but far enough away that the details would be difficult to make out, assuming the lookouts were not using a glass. Porknoy’s plan was to dress Theof’s men in the garb of the Pozzelbia
n troops and try to march right in through the gate. Jalos had questioned a few of the prisoners and it seemed there were still at least three or four thousand troops inside, but they were spread out.
It was close to evening now; in a few hours it would be dark. That was when they would go. His men needed the rest and the darkness would benefit his soldiers more than the enemy. Porknoy prayed to Eridan that Dexter and the others could hold out that long.
Chapter Sixteen
Chess has been played in Pozzelby for over a thousand years. Some scholars have argued that the game originated here, while others claim that the game began on the Eastern Continent. There have been many great players from Pozzelby over the centuries. A great player must master all three phases of the game: opening, middle, and end game. Many players can play a good opening and middle game, but a strong end game is vital for achieving decisive victory.
Excerpted from J. R. Grimble’s, Pozzelby: A History
The early evening air helped to clear Grimwulf’s head. He saw the camp of the Twelve Sect Order and spied the tent of Garris Stone, which was brightly colored like a carnival tent in stark contrast to his dark and somber appearance. Grimwulf’s earlier misgivings returned at once, including his fears about Callis’ loyalty. He had no way of knowing that Callis, at that moment, was busy completing the ritual to empower the charm that would allow him to enslave Grimwulf’s will.
What to do? He needed answers and he would not get them by scratching his head. The duke saw an encampment ahead that flew a standard of a Black Fist. He strode into the camp, ignoring the common soldiers preparing their suppers around fires. The camp was half empty, he noticed, as he went straight for the larger tents that he assumed would house officers. Outside of the largest tent two guards stood by.
“Whose tent is this?” Grimwulf asked.
“This is the tent of Colonel Shurik, Commander of the Black Fist Sect,” said one soldier.
“Tell Colonel Shurik that Grimwulf Morbrick would speak with him.”
The soldier had no idea who Grimwulf was, but recognized that he was someone of importance from his manner and bearing. He nodded and disappeared inside of the tent. He reappeared a few moments later.
“The colonel will see you.”
Grimwulf entered the tent. The inside was spacious but simply appointed and smelled faintly of a charnel house. Colonel Shurik was a thick man, shorter than Grimwulf but just as broad, with black, greasy hair and a matching, drooping moustache. He did know who Grimwulf was.
“King Grimwulf, what can I, your humble servant and ally do for you?” the colonel asked, his voice accented—an Arissian perhaps?
“Who are you? I mean what country do you come from? Your standards are none I recognize. And how did you come to be here? I mean, you say you are my ally but I did not negotiate a treaty with you,” Grimwulf said.
Colonel Shurik was surprised by the questions.
“I’m sorry, I thought you knew. We are Garegon’s army.”
“Garegon?”
The name was familiar to Grimwulf. While not widely read, he was a student of war and recognized the name of the god that had been behind the Unity War.
“I didn’t realize that Garegon still had an army. How did his army come here thinking to assist me?”
“Sire, perhaps you should discuss this with Callis.”
“Why Callis?”
“It is because of him that we are here. I lead a sect, but my sect is only ninth of twelve. Callis is master of the first sect, the Black Sun. I understood that he was advising you in this matter.”
“Yes, Callis is my advisor. Things simply moved more quickly than he anticipated and he was unable to fill me in on all that I should know. Then I was wounded in the battle with the goblins. I was near your camp and had been told that you were knowledgeable. I will find Callis and consult with him.”
“I am glad to assist you. Glory to Garegon.”
“Yes, of course. One more thing—Garris Stone. If Callis leads the first sect, of what sect is Stone master?”
“General Stone is master of none, but, at the same time, master of all. He serves Lord Garegon personally and is the high commander of all the militant sects, mine included. It is rare that he walks amongst us. Typically, Lord Garegon keeps General Stone close by his side.”
“Thank you, Colonel. I will take my leave now.”
Grimwulf left the tent, walking purposefully though he knew not where he was going, carefully keeping his expression neutral. He walked away from his own quarters, where Callis was. Instinct told him to stay as far from his advisor as he would the deadliest of snakes. He thought about gathering a squad of Pozzelbian soldiers and having Callis arrested. He immediately dismissed the idea. If Callis was indeed ‘Master of the First Sect’ then the members of Garegon’s army would likely turn on him as soon as he attempted such an action. Also, he had to assume that Tabor Till was part of the plot as well, so how far would Till’s soldiers obey the duke? Could all of General Till’s men be part of this group? He doubted it, but couldn’t be entirely sure.
Closer to the castle, several squads of Pozzelbian soldiers were positioned near the entrances. He found the largest group and picked out the sergeant who seemed to be in command.
“Glory to Garegon,” Grimwulf said.
“Sire?” said the sergeant, obviously confused.
“Nothing, just something I heard.” That seemed to confirm that the Pozzelbians, in general, were not Garegon cultists. “Sergeant, I need one hundred men. This group will do. Get them in formation and ready to accompany me into the castle.”
“Sire? I’m under orders to guard the main entrance.”
“I’m countermanding those orders. Do you have a problem with that, Sergeant?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
Just then a lookout on the wall announced that Colonel Tholla’s force was returning.
“See Sergeant, fresh soldiers to take your place.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said glumly.
“How long ago did General Till come through here?”
“Almost an hour ago, Sire.”
“But he did come through this entrance? Good, we will be following him.”
Grimwulf had run through a variety of plans in his head and found none for which he felt real confidence. The truth was that Dexter was the real king. These people here were trying to use Grimwulf, something that he bridled against. He was not the true king, even if he was currently using the sergeant’s belief that he was. Grimwulf had always been loyal and refused to stay in the camp of his enemy. The best plan that the duke had come up with was to take these men, find Dexter, and help him however he could.
He spat. That’s what he thought of Garegon.
****
I felt like I had been running forever.
It had not taken long for the huntsmen to get through the door and come after us. Tracking us through the dusty old castle was simple. We had fought. We had run. We fought again and now we were running once more.
Brin was doing fine—she looked fresher than me, as if we had done nothing more today than our usual exploration, a little cobwebby, a little dusty. Francis was struggling, red-faced and gasping for breath. I stayed close to him, offering him support as needed.
I had long ago become lost, and my sense of direction had abandoned me. Theof, at the point, seemed sure of where we were and that was reassuring.
The black clad elf stopped and looked around, as if remembering something.
“We’re in my part of the castle now,” he said, feeling along the wall carefully. He seemed to find what he wanted and pressed a slight bump that protruded off of a low stone. “There. Provided the mechanism hasn’t rusted too badly, that will activate a trap that I designed. When the hunters come through the passage we just left, they will activate a half dozen flaming jets. I don’t know if there will be any fuel left, but it i
s a hope.”
“Theof,” said Myrick. “We need a defensible spot where we can make a stand. We won’t be able to outrun the huntsmen for much longer.”
From not far behind us fire flared and streams of white heat shot across the corridor, accompanied by the shrieks of the lead huntsmen. The temperature in the hall immediately rose at least ten degrees and I could see the masked huntsmen on the other side of the blinding jets of fire that streamed from the wall. Then there was a rumbling roar and the side of the wall exploded at the source of one of the jets.
“The fuel tanks are too old; they’re giving way,” said Theof. “Run!”
We ran as fast as we could. Behind us there were more explosions and when I looked back a ball of fire was surging through the hall after us. The stones shook and fell from the ceiling. Then I turned a corner and kept running.
“Here! In here!” Theof yelled.
Almost dragging Francis along, I sprinted through the door that Theof had opened. When we all came through, Theof instructed Brin to web it shut. The room was full of moldy furniture—two sofas, a heavy chair, a few solid tables. We began to stack the furniture in front of the door. Once we finished, Brin stuck it all together with more webbing.
“This was Coenbrand and Chele’s suite. Through that door is Chele’s private gallery. Through this door is their bed chamber. Off of the bedroom are two baths. Both connect to Coenbrand’s exercise room. I suggest that we leave fifteen men here to hit Garegon’s men when they come in. Then they can retreat to the bedroom, where we position men with crossbows lined up near the entrances to both baths. They can hit the enemy with a cross fire and then retreat to the exercise room, where the rest of us will prepare to make our stand,” Theof said.
It was agreed and we moved to put the plan into action. In the bedroom, I noted that there had been windows here. Three hundred years ago, this room had been on the outside of the castle. But during the fifteen or so additions that had been made since, the windows had been sealed and the room was built around and forgotten. Right then I decided that if I survived this, I would break the tradition of constantly rebuilding and enlarging the castle. There was too much that had been lost and forgotten that needed rediscovering before anything new should be built.