Jack Frost: King of Thieves

CHAPTER XXXIX: March On Abita

The Baron of Thatchsun had long prided himself on his close ties to the royal house of the realm. Decades before, Dingwall's father had joined William the Second in his campaigns against the Greenstone, and Dingwall himself had fought under William's banner in the north to repel Stochlen invaders. He had been too old to join Manny on his crusade, but as Baron, he had done all he could to give support to the Homme-Sur-La-Lune march on the Theocracy. He paid his taxes to the Crown, gave grain to the bishops of Thatchsun.

In every way, he had served his realm honourably and courageously. Never in his life had he uttered a seditious word, or given comfort to those who did. He considered himself a friend of the Plantagenets and had long assumed that they looked upon him as a loyal subject and a dependable ally.

Apparently, he had been mistaken all these years. Or he had been a fool. How else could he explain the army that had gathered outside his gate, demanding what remained of his treasure and threatening to sack his village and home should he refuse?

It was Hans' doing, he knew. Manny might have squandered the Southern Isles treasure and the blood of her young men in pursuit of his wars, but he had never been a despot. He had never sacrificed the well-being of his people simply because it pleased him to fill his coffers with gold.

This new king, though, was a different matter. He would happily destroy the realm to satisfy his greed. Manny's leopards were gone, banished. Wolves now controlled the Southern Isles. And they were at his gates.

Dingwall was headed for the ramparts of the Burgess tower, the better to see just what his people faced. He tried to cinch his sword belt as he took the tower stairs two at a time, but his hands shook with fury, making it difficult for him to do much of anything. His grandson climbed the stairs behind him, trying to keep up with him, breathing heavily with the effort, and probably with fear as well. It was no small matter to face the king's army.

"This Robber King is no king of mine!" Dingwall said bravely, hoping for the lad's sake that he sounded more confident than he felt.

He reached the top of the winding stairs a moment later and stepped out onto the battlements of the town walls. There were townspeople up there already, many of them dressed in rags, looking half-starved. And these men had come for gold? Dingwall would have laughed if he hadn't been so enraged. He pushed past his people so that he could get a view of what was happening below.

The force was smaller than he had been led to believe. His grandson, panicked and inexperienced in such things had spoken as if the entire Southern Isles army was at the Burgess Gate. There couldn't have been more than two hundred men massed before the walls.

Still, Dingwall couldn't stand long against any force, not even one-half this size. His people were farmers, not warriors. His gates were intended to keep out road thieves and ruffians from the wood, not Southern Isles regulars.

One of the king's men had stepped forward to the town gate and was now nailing up a notice, which, of course, Dingwall couldn't read. Not that he needed to. He could imagine well enough what it said.

"Are you Dingwall?"

The Baron shifted his gaze to the man who had spoken. He wore a fine coat of mail, and, over it, a black tabard marked with a brightly coloured crest Dingwall did not recognise. A black cape was draped around his shoulders, fastened at the neck with a silver chain. His head was raven black, his eyes deep-set and dark, and he bore an angry scar on one cheek. He sat an impressive black stallion that seemed to complement perfectly his clothing and appearance.

"Open the gates," the man said. He spoke the words forcefully enough, but there was an insouciant quality to his voice as if it made little difference to him whether or not Dingwall complied.