The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

“Let him then,” Alensson sneered. “We won’t be defeated like my father was. The Ceredigic king died of dysentery and left a newborn to inherit two crowns. Let’s wrest one of them back before the brat gets his teeth.”

Boquette chuckled sardonically again. “It wasn’t dysentery, lad. A poisoner got to him.” His scar looked white and puckered through the thicket of his unshaven whiskers.

“You think so?” Alensson hated the slight quaver in his voice.

Boquette nodded sagely. “I heard some men whispering about it over their cups. Deford is not the same man as his brother. He wasn’t even at Azinkeep. This is our chance. If this ruse works, we’ll take Vernay without a fight and have a means to support ourselves.” He sighed. “But if it fails, you may get a chance yet to show off your, ahem, skills.”

From their vantage point, disguised as guards and riding chargers, the situation looked strange and otherworldly. Their ruse was simple. Fifty men wearing the kilts and badges of Atabyrion were seated backward on their horses, their arms tied behind their backs, the customary position for defeated foes being marched as hostages after a battle. The dozen horsemen leading the prisoners wore hastily sewn uniforms bearing the badge of Deford, three white scallops on a field of black. Some peasant girls had sewn the liveries for them, and while they wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny, they were convincing from atop a city wall. The Atabyrions’ language was the closest to Ceredigion’s, and the soldiers had been handpicked to be their spokesmen.

A horn sounded in the distance from the city of Vernay, sending a prickle of gooseflesh down Alensson’s back. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. If the city guards didn’t fall for the deception, then Alensson’s troops would be hit with a hail of arrows from archers on the walls. Riders would chase down all who survived.

“I hope this works,” Boquette grumbled.

“It will,” Alensson said under his breath. “Now lift your head like you’re a proud warrior of Ceredigion.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve waited nine years for this,” Alensson said. He changed his posture and bearing, throwing his shoulders back. Even though he was fifteen, he was fit and had often passed for a much older man. His thoughts wandered momentarily to the tearful kiss his young wife had given him before he left her three days earlier. It was her family’s fortunes that were sustaining him, since his own lands had been settled on Deford, the new duke of Westmarch. The thought of the new title made him boil with anger. These were Alensson’s lands! This was his city! He was confident he’d take Vernay and Averanche. Then he would set up his bride, Jianne, in the castle there while he fought for the rest of his lands.

Alensson had started in the training yard as a lad of eight. He’d been bludgeoned with wooden swords until he was ten. His nose had been broken once and his knuckles and fingers had been hammered mercilessly until he’d wept from pain. But the pain had never made him quit, for it was never as keen as the shame he’d felt over the loss of his land and title. Some even said Alensson’s relentless determination to master the arts of war was an early sign the lad was Fountain-blessed. He’d never actually heard the whispers of the Fountain, but he religiously tossed coins into the chapel fountains wherever he went and listened to the lapping of the waters, seeking a sign that he had finally been chosen. These actions did nothing to discourage the rumors. And why would he want to discourage them? He hoped it would happen to him. Besides, building a reputation took time and success. Vernay would be his first.

Be careful, my love. Be very careful.

He could see her dark hair in his mind, hair that was naturally wavy and long. Her eyes were the color of cinnamon. She was worried about him, but Alensson was confident his plan would work.

As the ‘prisoners’ arrived outside the main gates of Vernay, the horses grew restless. The bound men were all holding the loose ends of their ropes in their clenched fists. They each had weapons concealed and ready to use. Their armor and faces were deliberately smeared with mud to give the impression they’d recently been in a battle. Their countenances were angry and sullen.

“Oy!” shouted his captain of the guard to the soldiers assembled atop the battlement. His cry rang out in the air. Many of the soldiers atop the wall wore the livery of Ceredigion. These were Deford’s men. But most wore the colors of Occitania. This was a local garrison, provided by the Count of De Paul.

“Who are you?” shouted the officer atop the wall. “I don’t recognize you!”

“It’s me, Sir Sallust, you idiot!” the soldier said in a patronizing tone. They had chosen to impersonate him because of the man’s widespread reputation for cruelty. Sallust balked at the merest hint of defiance or disobedience, so they were less likely to question him. “Deford crushed these Atabyrion knaves in a battle yesterday. He ordered me to hold them here while he chases down the men who fled the field like cowards. Open the bloody gate!”

A cheer went up from the soldiers on the wall and Alensson licked his lips. He trembled with anticipation, anxious for the matter to be ended. Movement along the wall was followed by the groans of timber, and the gate began to swing open to permit the hostages to be brought inside. Giddy triumph swelled in his breast. It was working, by the Fountain!

As the gate lumbered open, Alensson kicked his steed’s flanks to get it moving and nodded for Boquette to join him as they rode forward. The garrison cheered them on as they entered, taunting the Atabyrion prisoners with contempt and rude remarks.

“When?” Boquette hissed under his breath.

“Hold,” Alensson muttered back, holding up his hand and waving to the garrison soldiers as they came in. Someone thrust a bladder of wine up at him to celebrate, but he ignored the outstretched arm. He turned in his saddle, watching the horses come in. He outnumbered the garrison considerably. The cheers of victory would melt in their throats.

He rode up to the Atabyrion man pretending to be Sir Sallust, who was turned backward in the saddle, waving in the prisoners and jeering at them as they rode past. The chain hood helped conceal his face from the bystanders. The fellow had the best accent of them all. Alensson hadn’t trusted his own abilities to mimic the brogue.

“When was battle, Sir Sallust?” the garrison captain said, walking up to the Atabyrion with a pleased look. “How many fell? We had no word there was an army even close to Averanche. Was it a surprise attack?”

“Oh, it was a surprise attack,” the Atabyrion responded with a chuckle.

As soon as the young duke saw the last of the soldiers enter the city, he swung off the saddle in a practiced, easy move, and the garrison captain looked at him askance, his brow suddenly furrowed, as if he knew he should recognize Alensson’s face but could not quite recall it.

“It was a short battle,” Alensson said. “Because it was unexpected.”

“You’re Occitanian!” the garrison captain said in shock.

“It’s the duke!” someone blurted.