Kinghood: Book One of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 26

I know now what it is, that which seems so familiar. He moves like a Saliswater. He could be my brother. More than the ones I have.

Forgive me, Mar. It is sacrilege to speak such ill against my brothers, princes of Marland.

Still . . .

The handful of skirmishes he and his Right Captain had fought together flashed through his mind. Most were minor, mere confrontations with gangs of bandits or rogue merchants who refused to pay duties to the Crown. Only the Battle of Chesa could be considered a proper engagement, with trained soldiers on both sides. Still, with sword in hand, Everitt could always be counted on to stand by his side.

Until now.

From afar, Symon stood atop his horse on a wooded hillock. The vantage point presented him with sweeping views of Marlish birch, ash and alder, with pockets of morning fog struggling to stay put against the growing presence of the rising sun. The forests were thick, allowing few meadows and gaps, which made traversing this part of the countryside cumbersome. The only road through the area was little wider than a game trail and meandered in curves and bends like a snake aimlessly biding its time.

In any other campaign, such a route would have proven of little consequence. In such current circumstances, it hindered the small army Everitt had pieced together from Castle Arcporte, Saliswater Manor and his own family's men from Har-Kin Furde. The rest of the country's men were either too far flung or too hesitant to act without the blessing of the Conclave.

The serpentine force paused at its head upon coming across a downed tree. Its exposed roots suggested that it had fallen during a storm, though Symon did not rule out more manual efforts to account for its current position of obstruction. Several squad leaders and knights came close to the horizontal trunk, pointing and conversing amongst themselves. Two even went so far as to remove their battleaxes from their saddle sheathes.

From the rear, Everitt rode to the vanguard, his free arm motioning to the men before the tree. Even from Symon's seat, the commander's voice resonated. Those with the axes withdrew from the trunk as a few soldiers readied grappling hooks and ropes while others positioned the largest mounts close by. Within minutes, the horses dragged the hulking woodland mass from the trail, allowing the army to resume its march.

Symon's mount stirred, shaking its head. He patted the stallion on its side. "Yes, I know." Symon recognized the ground he watched from was coveted. Everitt would no doubt have scouts surveying the highest points as the fog lifted, of which the hillock was one. Best not to tempt the fate of Mar, Symon knew.

He clipped his heels, sending his horse down a steady slope at an easy pace. Once on level earth, he pushed northwest on a route adjacent to Everitt's forces yet far enough away to avoid detection. He was lightly fitted, bearing only an arming sword, a small wooden shield and a shirt of mail. That meant his tracks would be light, much like that of a Marlish woodsman or hunter, and hardly cause to arouse any suspicion among Everitt's scouts who may chance upon his path.

A slight breeze bent the lush branches overhead, allowing speckled sunlight to warm patches of his face. The rustling of the leaves further put Symon at ease. This is as grand as a solitary hunt. Hardly the forbearance of a battle. Perhaps Mar has spared us.

The uneventful ride went on with Symon nearly putting out of his consciousness the Marlish army that marched to the east. His shoulders sagged. His legs dangled from the saddle. His grip on the reins loosened as his hands rested on the horn of the saddle.

What is that?

Neither sight nor sound arrested his focus. Rather, a smell. Nay, a stench. Unlike one he had ever sensed before. The only scent that came close to resembling it reminded him of the castle dungeon, of the filth and decay that wafted from the unwashed prisoners whenever he chanced upon there for a surprise inspection of the guards and grounds.