The Dragon King

15 Dressed for Battle

“Yes, my dear deJulienne,” Brind’Amour said absently, leaning back in his throne, chin resting heavily in his palm. “DeJulienne,” he muttered derisively under his breath. The man’s name was Jules!

The other man, dressed all in lace and finery, and spending more time looking at his manicured fingernails than at Brind’Amour, continued to spout his complaints. “They utter such garish remarks,” he said, seeming horrified. “Really, if you cannot keep your swine civilized, then perhaps we should put in place a wide zone of silence about the wall.”

Brind’Amour nodded and sat up straighter in his throne. The argument was an old one, measuring time from the formation of the new Eriadoran kingdom. Greensparrow had sent Praetorian Guards to Malpuissant’s Wall to stand watch on the Avon side, and from the first day of their arrival, bitter verbal sparring had sprung up between the cyclopians and the Eriadorans holding the northern side of the wall.

“Uncivilized,” Brind’Amour replied casually. “Yes, deJulienne, that is a good word for us Eriadorans.”

The fop, Avon’s ambassador to Caer MacDonald, tilted his head back and struck a superior pose.

“And if you ever speak of my people again as ‘swine,’” Brind’Amour finished, “I will prove your point exactly by mailing your head back to Carlisle in a box.”

The painted face drooped, but Brind’Amour, seeing his friends enter the throne room, hardly noticed. “Luthien Bedwyr and Oliver deBurrows,” the king said, “have you had the pleasure of meeting our distinguished ambassador from Carlisle, Baron Guy deJulienne?”

The pair moved near to the man, Oliver bobbing to stand right before him. “DeJulienne?” the halfling echoed. “You are Gascon?”

“On my mother’s side,” the fop replied.

Oliver eyed him suspiciously, not buying a word of it. It had become common practice among the Avon nobles to alter their names so that they sounded more Gascon, a heritage that had become the height of fashion. To a true Gascon like Oliver, imitation did not ring as flattery. “I see,” said Oliver, “then it was your father who was a raping cyclopian.”

“Oliver!” Luthien cried.

“How dare you?” deJulienne roared.

“A true Gascon would duel me,” Oliver remarked, hand on rapier, but Luthien grabbed him by the shoulders, easily lifted him off the ground, and carried him to the side.

“I demand that the runt be punished,” deJulienne said to Brind’Amour, who was trying hard not to laugh.

“With my rapier blade I will write my so very long name across your puffy Avon breast!” Oliver shouted.

“He suffers from the war,” Brind’Amour whispered to deJulienne.

“Phony Gascon-type!” Oliver yelled. “If you want to be truly important, why do you not stand on your knees and pretend you are a halfling?”

“I should strike him down,” deJulienne said.

“Indeed,” replied the king, “but do have mercy. Oliver killed a hundred cyclopians personally in a single battle and has never quite gotten over it, I fear.”

DeJulienne nodded, and then, as the impact of the statement hit him fully, blanched even paler than his chalky makeup. “I will spare him then,” the man said quickly.

“I trust our business is finished?” Brind’Amour asked.

The Avon ambassador bowed curtly, spun on his heel, and stalked from the room.

“Jules!” Oliver called after him. “Julie, Julie!”

“Did you really see that as necessary?” Brind’Amour asked when Oliver and Luthien came to stand before him once more.

Oliver tilted his head thoughtfully. “No,” he answered at length, “but it was fun. Besides, I could tell that you wanted the fool out of here.”

“A simple dismissal would have sufficed,” Brind’Amour said dryly.

“Baron Guy deJulienne,” Luthien snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. Luthien had tasted more than his fill of the foppish Avon aristocracy, and he had little use for such pretentious fools. The woman who had sent him on the road from Dun Varna in the first place, the consort of yet another self-proclaimed baron, was much like deJulienne, all painted and perfumed. She had used the name of Avonese, though in truth her mother had titled her “Avon.” Seeing the ambassador of Avon only reaffirmed to Luthien that he had done well in giving the throne over to Brind’Amour. After the war, the Crimson Shadow could have likely claimed the throne, and many had called for him to do just that. But Luthien had deferred to Brind’Amour, for the good of Eriador—and, the sight and smell of deJulienne pointedly reminded him, for the good of Luthien!

“I should have sticked him in his puffy Avon breast,” Oliver muttered.

“To what end?” Brind’Amour asked. “At least this one is harmless enough. He is too stupid to spy.”

“Beware that facade,” Luthien warned.

“I have fed him information since he arrived,” Brind’Amour assured the young man. “Or should I say, I have fed him lies. DeJulienne has already reported to Greensparrow that nearly all of our fleet is engaged in a war with the Huegoths, and that more than twenty Eriadoran galleons have been sunk.”

“Diplomacy,” Luthien said with obvious disdain.

“Government, ptooey!” Oliver piped in.

“On to other matters,” Brind’Amour said, clearing his throat. “You have done well, and I offer again my congratulations and the gratitude of all Eriador.”

Luthien and Oliver looked to each other curiously, at first not understanding the change that had come over Brind’Amour. Then their faces brightened in recognition.

“Duke Resmore,” Luthien reasoned.

“The wizard-type has admitted the truth,” Oliver added.

“In full,” Brind’Amour confirmed. The king clapped his hands twice then, and an old man, dressed in brown robes, moved out from behind a tapestry.

“My greetings, once more, Luthien Bedwyr and Oliver deBurrows,” he said.

“And ours to you!” Luthien replied. Proctor Byllewyn of Gybi! The mere presence of the man told Luthien that the treaty with the Huegoths had been drawn.

Brind’Amour stood up from his throne. “Come,” he bade the others. “I have already spoken with Ethan and Katerin and word has gone out to the Dorsal Sea. King Asmund should have arrived in Chalmbers by now, thus I will open a path that he and Ethan might join with us.”

And Katerin, Luthien hoped, for how he missed his dear Katerin!

It was no small feat convincing suspicious Asmund to walk through the magical tunnel that Brind’Amour erected between Caer MacDonald’s Ministry and the distant city of Chalmbers. Even after Katerin and Brother Jamesis had gone through, even after the Huegoth king had agreed, Ethan practically had to drag him into the swirling blue lights.

The walk was exhilarating, spectacular, each step causing a mile of ground to rush under their feet. Chalmbers was fully three hundred miles from Caer MacDonald, but with Brind’Amour’s enchanted gate, the six men (including two strong Huegoth escorts, none other than Rennir and Torin Rogar) stepped into the Ministry in mere minutes.

“I do not approve of your magics!” Asmund said, defeating any greetings before they could even be offered.

“Time is pressing,” Brind’Amour replied. “Our business is urgent.”

Rennir and Torin Rogar grumbled.

“Then why did you not walk through the blue bridge to us?” Asmund asked suspiciously.

“Because Avon’s ambassador is in Caer MacDonald,” was all that Brind’Amour would reply. “This is the center, whether the Huegoths choose to join with Eriador’s cause or not.”

Luthien looked at the old wizard with true surprise; Brind’Amour’s stern demeanor hardly seemed a fitting way to greet the Huegoths, especially since they were proposing an alliance that went opposite the traditions of both peoples!

But Brind’Amour did not back down, not in the least.

“I am weary,” Asmund declared. “I will rest.”

Brind’Amour nodded. “Take our guests to their rooms in the northeastern wing,” he said to Luthien, nodding in that direction to emphasize the area. Luthien understood; deJulienne was quartered in the southeastern wing, and Brind’Amour wanted to keep the Avonese ambassador and Asmund as far apart as possible.

“I will do it,” Oliver offered, cutting in front of Luthien. He turned and winked at Luthien, then whispered, “You show Lady Katerin to her room.”

Luthien didn’t argue.

“You are sure that all is well with you?” Luthien asked softly.

Katerin rolled over, facing away from the man. “You need to ask?” she said with a giggle.

Luthien wasn’t joking. He put a hand on Katerin’s shoulder and gently, but firmly, turned her back to face him. He said not a word, but his expression stole the mirth from teasing Katerin.

“Ethan was with me the whole time,” she replied in all seriousness. “He is still your brother, despite his claims, and still my friend. He would have aided me, but in truth, I needed no protection or assistance. As rough as they might be, the Huegoths are honorable enough, by my eyes.”

“You would not have agreed with that when we were on Colonsey,” Luthien reminded her, and she had to admit that to be true. When they had first been captured, when The Stratton Weaver had been sent under the waves, Katerin was quite sure that her life would become a miserable thing, enslaved in the worst possible way by the savage Isenlanders.

“I am not for understanding them,” she admitted. “But their demeanor changed as soon as the treaty was proposed by Asmund. I spent much time with Ethan and the Huegoths in Chalmbers, many hours out on the longship, and I was not threatened, not even insulted, in the least. No, my love, the Huegoths are fierce enemies, but loyal friends. I hold all confidence in the alliance, should it come to pass.”

Luthien rolled onto his back and lay quiet, staring at the ceiling. He trusted fully in Katerin’s judgment, and was filled with excitement.

But also with trepidation—for the war, if it came, would be brutal, far worse than the battles Eriador had fought to win its tentative freedom from Avon. Even with Huegoth allies, the Eriadorans would be sorely outnumbered by the more prosperous kingdom to the south. Even with the Huegoth longships and the captured Avon galleons, the Eriadoran fleet would not dominate the seas.

Luthien chuckled softly as he considered the irony of his current fears. When Princetown had fallen, that same spring only a few short months before, Luthien had wanted to press the war all the way to Carlisle. Brind’Amour had warned against such a desperate course, reminding his young friend of Greensparrow’s power.

“Find your heart, my love,” Katerin said, shifting so that her face was above Luthien’s, her silken red hair cascading over his bare neck and shoulders.

Luthien pulled her down to him and kissed her hard. “You are my heart,” he said.

“As is Eriador,” Katerin quickly added. “Free of Greensparrow and free of war.”

Luthien put his chin on her shoulder. Gradually a smile widened on his face; gradually the fires came again into his cinnamon eyes.

“It is all but done,” Luthien remarked as he and Brind’Amour left the table after a long and private session with Asmund and Ethan.

“Your brother shows wisdom far beyond his thirty years,” Brind’Amour said. “He has led Asmund down this road of alliance.”

“It was Asmund who first proposed the treaty,” Luthien reminded.

“And since that time, Ethan has taken the lead in making Asmund’s wish a reality,” replied Brind’Amour. “He is loyal to his king.”

That remark stung the young Bedwyr, who did not like to think of Ethan as a Huegoth, whatever Ethan might claim. He stopped in the corridor, letting Brind’Amour get a couple of steps ahead of him. “To both his kings,” he replied when his friend turned back to regard him.

Brind’Amour thought on that a moment, considered Ethan’s work in the discussions, and nodded his agreement. Ethan’s actions on behalf of Eriador had been considerable in the sessions; on several occasions he had openly disagreed with Asmund, and had even managed to change the Huegoth’s mind once or twice.

Brind’Amour’s nod set Luthien moving again. He caught up to his king, and even swept Brind’Amour up in his wake, taking the lead the rest of the way to the war room, where Siobhan, Katerin, Oliver, and Shuglin waited anxiously.

“It will be finished and signed this night,” Brind’Amour confided.

Smiles were exchanged all about the oval table, on which was set a map of Avonsea. The mirth fell away when it reached Oliver, though, the halfling standing solemnly atop a stool.

“What is your pain?” Luthien asked bluntly. “An alliance with the Huegoths gives us a chance.”

“Do you know how many innocent Avon people-types the Huegoth barbarians will destroy?” the halfling asked, reminding them of the reality of their newfound friends. “How many now work the oars of their longships? How many would they have thrown into the sea when we were captured, had not the one called Rennir recognized Luthien as one owed a debt?”

True enough, they all had to admit. They were about to get into bed with the devil, it seemed.

“We cannot change the Huegoth ways,” Brind’Amour said at length. “We must remember that Greensparrow is the most immediate threat to our independence.”

“To Eriador whole,” Oliver replied, not backing down. “But do not be so quick to tell that to the next man sent bob-bobbing in the deep waters because his life with Asmund’s people has taken his strength.”

Katerin slammed her fist on the table in frustration; Shuglin, who had no experience with Huegoths and considered their slaves as unfortunate people too far removed for consideration at that point, glared at Oliver.

Luthien, though, nodded at his little friend, somewhat surprised by Oliver’s enlightened view of things. Oliver had never been one to hesitate from separating a wealthy merchant from his purse, but Oliver, Luthien silently reminded himself, was the one who used to buy many winter coats, then find some minuscule complaint with them that he might justify throwing them out in the street—where the homeless orphans promptly found them and gathered them up.

Siobhan, too, saw the truth in Oliver’s words and she walked up beside him, and, in front of everyone, kissed him.

Oliver blushed and swayed, nearly toppling from the stool. As was his way, the halfling quickly regained his dignity.

“The Huegoths are not the best moral choice as allies,” Katerin agreed, “but we can trust them to keep their part in the alliance.”

“But should we accept them at all?” Siobhan asked.

“Yes,” Brind’Amour replied immediately, in a tone that showed no room for debate. “I, too, despise many of the Huegoth customs, slavery highest among them. Perhaps we might do something about that at another time. But for now, the foremost problem is Greensparrow and his cyclopians, who, even Oliver must agree, are far worse than the Huegoths.”

Everyone looked to Oliver, and, feeling important, he nodded for Brind’Amour to continue.

“We cannot defeat Greensparrow without Huegoth aid,” the Eriadoran king went on. Even with that aid, Brind’Amour doubted the outcome, but he kept that unsettling thought private. “Once Eriador is truly free, once Greensparrow is thrown down, then our power and influence will increase many times over.”

“We war for freedom, not power,” Luthien had to say.

“True freedom will grant us power beyond our borders,” Brind’Amour explained. “Then we might properly deal with the Huegoths.”

“You cannot go to war with an ally,” Oliver retorted.

“No,” Brind’Amour agreed, “but as allies, our influence upon Asmund will be much greater. We’ll not change the Huegoth ways, any way short of complete war, and I do not think that any of us has the heart to take battle all the way to Isenland.” He paused to watch the shaking heads, confirming his proclamation.

“I, too, would choose differently than the Huegoths as allies if any choice was to be made,” Brind’Amour went on. “Your own Gascony, Oliver, cannot be counted on for any overt aid, though Lord de Gilbert has promised Eriador a lenient credit line should war come.”

“A promise he probably has also extended to Avon,” a snickering Oliver admitted, and the tension broke apart.

“Then we are agreed?” Brind’Amour asked when the nervous laughter subsided. “Asmund is our ally.”

Luthien seconded the call, just beating Shuglin to the mark. Katerin came next, followed by Siobhan and finally, with a great and dramatic sigh, Oliver. There was one other voice to be heard in this debate, Brind’Amour knew, but he would have to deal with that problem later.

Brind’Amour moved up to the table’s edge and took up a pointer. “Ethan has helped,” remarked the wizard, who suddenly did not seem so old to Luthien. “He, too, understands the benefit of keeping the Huegoths as far from land as possible.”

“Ethan knows the truth of Eriador now,” Luthien put in.

“Thus, and Asmund has tentatively agreed, the Huegoth ships will sail in formation east of the Eriadoran Dorsal fleet, which itself will sail east of the Five Sentinels.” Brind’Amour ran the pointer down the eastern shores of the island line.

“What of Bangor, Lemmingburg, and Corbin?” Katerin wanted to know, referring to three Avon coastal towns, clearly marked on the wizard’s detailed map. “And what of Evenshorn, on the northern fringes of the Saltwash? If the ships are to sail outside the Five Sentinels, how are we to wage war with all the eastern towns of Avon?”

“We are not,” Brind’Amour replied without hesitation. “Avon is Greensparrow. Avon is Carlisle. When Carlisle falls, so shall Avon!” He banged the pointer’s tip on the point where the twin rivers both known as Stratton joined, in the southwestern section of the southern kingdom.

“The Five Sentinels are a long way from Carlisle,” Siobhan remarked. “A roundabout route, and certainly longer and more dangerous than simply sailing along the Avon coast.”

“But this course will keep the Huegoths offshore,” Oliver piped in.

“And,” said Brind’Amour slyly, “it will lessen the chance of an engagement with Avon’s fleet.”

“I thought that was the point,” Shuglin said, looking confused.

Brind’Amour shook his head and waved his free hand, running the pointer down the wide channel between the Five Sentinels and the eastern shore of Avonsea. “If we battle with Avon’s fleet here,” he explained, “and they are victorious, they will still have time to sail all the way around to the south, to do battle with our second fleet before it enters the River Stratton.”

All the others moved closer to the table as the wizard spoke, his tone making it clear that he had thought this out completely and carefully.

“Also,” the king explained, “let us keep our alliance with Asmund secret from Greensparrow. Surely the presence of Huegoth longships so close will make him nervous. And nervous leaders make mistakes!”

Brind’Amour again paused to consider the affirming nods, drawing strength from the others. It was clear that the wizard was doing a bit of gambling here, and a bit of praying.

“The attack will be four-pronged,” he explained. “Half our fleet and the Huegoths will sail outside the Five Sentinels, securing the outer islands, and then swinging to the west for the mouth of the Stratton. A second fleet, already on its way to Port Charley from Diamondgate, will go south, through the Straits of Mann, and come into the Stratton from the east.”

Luthien and Katerin exchanged nervous glances at that. Both understood the danger of this second move, for the fleet would be caught in narrow waters between the two strongholds of Mannington and Eornfast.

“The largest land force,” Brind’Amour went on, moving the pointer appropriately, “will strike out from Malpuissant’s Wall, securing Princetown, then sweeping down the open farmlands between Deverwood and the southern spurs of the Iron Cross, a straight run for Carlisle.”

“Might they be held up at Princetown?” Oliver asked.

“By all reports, the city remains virtually defenseless,” Brind’Amour said with confidence. “Neither the wizard-duke nor the garrison has been replaced.”

“And the fourth prong?” Luthien asked impatiently, guessing that this last, and perhaps most important, move would likely be his to lead.

“Straight south from Caer MacDonald,” Brind’Amour answered. “Collecting King Bellick’s dwarfs and pressing straight through the mountains.”

Luthien eyed that intended line. The Iron Cross was no easy traverse, even with a dwarvish army leading the way, and worse, it was widely accepted that the bulk of Greensparrow’s cyclopian allies, including the highly trained and well-armed Praetorian Guards, were encamped along that same route. Even if those obstacles were overcome, it wouldn’t get much easier for the Eriadoran army once the mountains were crossed, for that pocket of Avon, tucked into the nook between the Straits of Mann and the southern and western reaches of the Iron Cross, was the most populous and fortified region in all of Avonsea. Towns dotted the banks of all three rivers that ran from the mountains into Speythenfergus Lake, culminating with mighty Warchester, the second city of Avon, with walls as high as those of Carlisle itself!

Finally, a resigned Luthien looked to Katerin and shrugged, managing a smile.

The woman only shook her head; now that the true scope of their undertaking had been laid out before them, it seemed a desperate, almost impossible attempt.