Chapter 11 Faron #2
The hundred men and women gathered in the center of camp, forming ten-wide lines.
A quick shout from Alex told Faron and Bart where to stand, a spot in the rearmost line along the left side.
Faron caught those nearby shooting him confused glances.
Someone so tall and strong as he would normally be on the front line, but Faron suspected such privilege would wait until Alex confirmed Faron actually knew how to swing a sword.
As for who the bastard could be, Faron had a guess.
The rows upon rows of soldiers who marched into the camp only confirmed it.
Half were in chain, half in padded leather, and all wore tabards dyed a deep yellow.
This was no scouting force like he’d expected.
It wasn’t a full army, either, something more akin to a skirmishing force, numbering about a thousand in total.
Perhaps Luelle was considered a potential target of attack should war break out between Doremy and Argylle?
And then he saw her, marching in the heart of the formation.
She wore no helmet, so her blond hair hung low across her tabard to bunch up on her shoulders.
Unlike the rest of the soldiers, she wore a full suit of plate, its surface shining a brilliant silver.
A shield was strapped to her left arm, and at her side, a blade nestled within a black sheath trimmed with gold.
Its hilt was similarly gold, that which was not wrapped in soft, dark leather.
A white cloak flowed behind her, rippling from her passage.
The soldiers parted, making way for her to address the waiting camp. Faron’s throat constricted, and he felt a sudden need to be closer to the front. This woman…
He had heard claims Princess Isabelle Dior had been blessed by the goddess. Heard, and not believed. But now he looked upon a face of striking beauty, and those eyes? Her irises seemed to glow, composed of gold more valuable than that which was filigreed into her sword hilt.
“Welcome, recruits of Luelle,” Isabelle said to the hundred.
Her voice was deeper than Faron expected, more commanding, too.
This was not a woman who spent her life in delicacy.
She did not wear that armor as if it were a costume, but as one familiar with its weight.
Men and women stared at her, equally captivated, and Faron suspected whatever order she gave, they would obey without question.
Her eyes swept the line, and when they settled on Faron, he swore he saw her momentarily stumble, and her gaze linger.
She shook her head and quickly recovered.
“I am Princess Isabelle of Leyval,” she said, slowly pacing before them, her shield arm at her side, the other resting upon the hilt of her sword.
“Or the Bastard Princess, as some of you may have heard. It is the title the Casthes are all too eager to brand upon me, as if they whisper words I have not heard since I was a babe in a cradle.”
She lifted her arms to either side, palms to the heavens.
“But I am graced with the goddess’s blessing.
It is her words that I cherish, and not the barbs of the violent and the cowardly.
King Bentley is a pitiful man, fat on his stolen wealth from the iron-beech trade.
Wealth he does not share with those who bend their backs and scar their hands to make his prosperity possible.
But he insults more than the body. He insults the spirit.
Argylle has embraced the blasphemous Church of Stars.
He has welcomed their silver-tongued preachers and shepherds, and he helps build their ugly churches. ”
Her hands clenched. Fists now, shaking with rage.
“Leliel has rewarded them for their insolence. Word reached us not hours before arriving here. Prince Mortimer of Argylle is dead, slain by bandits of his own lands.”
Gasps all around. For such a destabilizing event to happen to an enemy, and with war so close? Another proof of the luck of the goddess protecting Isabelle.
“Argylle condemns those who currently rule her,” the princess continued. “Violence. Lawlessness. Her own people, here, among you, ready to make things right.”
Her golden eyes swept the crowd, and Faron’s insides tightened and his pulse quickened. How long had it been since he’d seen a woman so beautiful? Not since… since…
A face, a name, both threatening to return, but he fought them down, remembered the flames of the pyre Sariel had burned him upon. With his vision overwhelmed with fire, he watched Princess Isabelle draw her sword to end her speech.
“We are freedom, my friends. Freedom from the tyranny of the Casthes. Freedom from the vile faith of the east. Will you fight with me? Will you return to the homes you left, broken no longer, servants no longer, but instead free and radiant with the goddess’s blessing?”
No hesitation. Every man and woman raised their arms and voices, crying out their acceptance. The hundreds of soldiers behind Isabelle joined in the chant, overwhelming it with a single name that the rest quickly took up.
Isabelle! Isabelle! Isabelle!
The Bastard Princess slashed the air with her sword. Her decree felt like it traveled for miles.
“Then, stand tall, warriors of Doremy, for this day, we go to war!”
From what Faron gathered while listening in on idle chatter, it was widely believed Isabelle would launch her war against King Bentley Casthe the moment her father died and she inherited the title of queen.
That she would start early, and without any official declaration, could be seen as cowardly, conniving, or dishonorable.
Yet he sensed no such judgment. The people feared the Church of Stars, and they adored their Bastard Princess.
Whatever path she took, they would follow.
“I… I can’t believe we’re going,” Bart said, sitting beside Faron as the army rested.
They’d marched for hours, and all of them stank of sweat.
The young man was so red in the face the flush hid his freckles.
A life on the farm had not prepared him for an army’s long march.
It had taken Faron’s encouragement (and a subtle strengthening with radiance) to keep him going.
“Not two days ago I was at home, thinking of what it’d be like to help free us from Bentley’s tyranny.
And now? To have met Princess Isabelle? To be marching back into Argylle, toward my home, with a sword in hand? ”
“A sword you don’t know how to use,” Faron said, and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
Bart was excited. He was terrified. Most of all, he was stunned.
He’d not lived through war. He didn’t know how easily one could be swept up into its tide.
Faron had tried to spare him this fate, but that ship had long sailed.
Instead, Faron would keep him safe as best he could during the chaos of battle.
“It’s going to be so much worse than you can imagine,” he said softly. “Stay with me, always at my right side. Don’t try to fight. You don’t have the training, not yet. That will come, if you survive, but you must first survive.”
Bart’s pride was clearly wounded, but he accepted the suggestion.
“Alex might not approve,” he said.
“Alex expects nothing of you, either, except death. Prove him wrong.”
Trumpets sounded, resuming their march. Faron whistled, calling Iris from where she lay not far from them in the grass.
The march did her old bones no favors, either, and she mostly skirted the edge of the troops instead of staying at Faron’s side.
Twice he was asked if she was an attack dog, and to simplify matters, Faron answered in the affirmative.
“Just keep her back unless Tristan wants her to join in the fight,” one of them, a hulking woman missing one eye, snapped at him. “I don’t want to die because some mutt trips my ankles.”
“Hear that?” Faron had said, nudging Bart. “No tripping the fair lady.”
As the army marched, Faron struck up conversations with those around him, relying on his charisma and the soldiers’ excitement to open up their lips.
Their target was a fort to the west, one that guarded a bridge crossing the slender Wendway River.
It was not expected to be well defended, for while King Bentley anticipated war, he still thought he had months to prepare, plus he wanted the bulk of his soldiers to remain with him at his capital in Vendom.
It would be an easy victory, while simultaneously taking one of the two main crossings over the Wendway River that split off Argylle’s lower third.
Isabelle’s plan was to isolate a significant portion of her enemy’s territory before he even knew a war had begun.
A ruthless plan, and given the sentiment Faron had encountered when in Arbertown, one likely to work.
If the people in southern Argylle saw Isabelle as a liberator, she might gain a groundswell of new recruits, all while stripping Bentley of potential conscripts.
And from what he gathered, this was not her main force.
Three thousand more soldiers remained in her capital, more than enough to defend against a siege.
Surprising, though, was that the princess would be willing to come so far to lead the fight herself.
It inspired the soldiers, true, but it was a significant risk, one that improved Faron’s opinion of her.
She would not hide in a castle, safe and distant from the bloodshed she started.
Resplendent in her armor, she would see it firsthand, if not fight in it herself.