Chapter 8 #3
The other nobles of Parwys were even more hostile.
Tomos, Count of Forgard, who ruled the lands to Afondir’s immediate west, had once sent his housecarls to gather up the iron stars and triangles of the faithful in his domain.
Sacred objects he ordered melted down and cast into ammunition to feed the cannons of his fleet.
Emissaries from Tarebach had managed to briefly secure a place in the late King Elbrech’s court.
Long enough to convert a few courtiers and civil servants, by their report.
But under pressure from the druidess queen, they had been sent back to the Iron Citadel.
Driven from the kingdom with whips and hounds at their heels, and bearing a decree that neither templar nor missionary would be welcome again in the court of Parwys.
‘The Count of Afondir changed the plan,’ Torin said. ‘I would like to learn why.’
‘He may yet send you back to Templar Unwith.’
‘He may try.’ Torin let some of his anger leach into his voice. ‘And then I will decide whether or not to do as he wishes. I am an anakriarch, and only the Iron Citadel itself commands me.’
The housecarl dipped his head and ran a finger down the curls of his moustache. Before he could give any answer, his counterpart returned and begrudgingly bade Torin, Orn and Anwe dismount and follow her to the pavilion.
To his credit, however slight, the Count of Afondir rose to meet them.
Eurion of Afondir was an imposing man. Taller even than Anwe, with a mane of fiery red hair and a well-groomed beard to match. Eyes like flakes of emerald burned fury at Torin even as the count offered an open smile and outstretched arms.
‘Be welcome, honoured guests,’ he said, gesturing towards three camp chairs which a pair of servants were hastily setting up.
He and Ifan—the young, dark-haired, angry-looking Count of Glascoed, who pointedly did not stand—had been sitting together at a round table bearing a map of the surrounding forests, riven through with logging paths, hunters’ runs, and dirt roads for wagons from the mines.
‘Ifan’s bondswoman tells us you have come to lend your aid in our time of need,’ Afondir went on, running a finger down the white streak in his beard.
‘I wonder how word of our current troubles reached Templar Unwith so quickly! Or was that not the issue of concern?’
Though he wanted to invoke justice and strike Afondir square in his haughty jaw, Torin dipped his head, performing the role he had assigned himself—of a stranger come for charity’s sake to lend aid to a kingdom in distress.
‘Word of the haunting that bedevils this land reached the Iron Citadel not long ago. The Ecclesiarch, in his compassion and wisdom, dispatched we three—templar knights of a high order, skilled in such affairs—to lend what aid we can. On our arrival, Templar Unwith relayed the deepening of this tragedy in the death of your king and directed us to seek you out, knowing that you are a friend of the Church and would vouchsafe us to court.’
‘We are, of course, grateful to your Ecclesiarch,’ Afondir said, gesturing to include the Count of Glascoed—who seemed far from grateful, glaring at the newcomers from the shadow of his prominent brow.
‘Alas, it may be some time before I continue on to Parwys. There is a matter of some importance that must be dealt with first.’
‘And do we deal with it by lingering here, sipping watered wine while our soldiers comb the forest?’ Glascoed snapped.
Torin kept a mental catalogue of the virtues and vices of those around him and added intemperance to the young count’s ledger.
‘My housecarls and I should ride out, Eurion. We know the woods well. We know they are nearby. Gavron and I might have found these bandits hours ago, on our own!’
‘My huntsmen and your foresters are more than sufficient to the task, I think,’ Afondir cut back, his smile twisting in annoyance. ‘We ought to be here to receive any reports, and to dispense justice to any of these bandits our men take prisoner.’
‘What is amiss?’ Torin asked, settling into the seat he had been offered. ‘Perhaps my knights and I might help and speed all our ways to Parwys.’
Glascoed made to answer, but Afondir cut him off.
‘Three days ago, as I was nearly to depart for the king’s funeral, word reached me that a shipment of raw iron had not been delivered on schedule to the port of Ispont.
I sent riders to the Count of Glascoed immediately—the shipment being due from mines in his lands.
Time is of the essence to hunt down these brigands before their trail vanishes in the autumn rains, you see.
Else we would not have delayed. Despite the woodcraft of Ifan’s housecarls—which I am sure he does not exaggerate—they only today found the trail leading to these woods.
We suspect our quarry keeps a hideaway near Woodsman’s Hearth.
Far enough from the gaze of either Glascoed or Afondir, but near enough to the main road to allow for easy transport of illicit goods. ’
Afondir’s gaze told that there was more, left unsaid.
Some facet of the story he did not wish to voice in front of Glascoed.
Torin let the issue lie, but resolved to press him on it at the first opportunity.
Afondir’s ambitions were the means by which the Church might find its foothold in Parwys, but, unchecked, they were as likely to undermine those efforts.
Torin gestured to Orn. ‘My knight of stillness is skilled in such matters,’ he said. ‘And granted boons by the example of the Agion which might aid in this pursuit. I would lend him to you, if you will allow us to accompany you and make our case to the crown prince.’
Glascoed scoffed. ‘We are capable of meting out our own justice. We’ve no need for aid from you or your church.’
An excess of courage and intemperance, Torin noted, to begin young Ifan’s ledger of failings.
Afondir made a show of mulling over Torin’s offer.
‘I do not disagree, Ifan, but if there is a chance their aid might speed things—whether in seeking these bandits or the question of the haunting—I see no reason to reject it. Neither you nor I wish to insult the king-in-waiting by our absence at his father’s funeral. Very well, Sir Torin.’
‘We are not all willing to permit their meddling in our affairs,’ Glascoed said, leaning forward, his hands under the table.
Afondir regarded him coldly, the smile gone. ‘Only a fool rejects aid when it is needed. Your father would not have been so stubborn.’
Glascoed flinched as though the older man had raised a fist. Hard words burned behind his eyes, but he tamped them down.
After a moment he rose from his seat and stalked off—to precisely what purpose was unclear to Torin, though he was glad to see the young count go—and his housecarls fell in after him.
Afondir sighed and shook his head. ‘Raised to power too young, I’m afraid,’ he murmured. ‘I hope our crown prince has a better temperament for rule than his old friend the count.’
A few quick orders later, Orn and one of Afondir’s housecarls followed the Count of Glascoed from the camp on horseback to join the hunt.
Anwe, seeming to sense that they would be staying a while, deposited herself in one of the empty chairs and brusquely asked for a bowl of something hot and meaty.
Though it showed a measure of weakness, Torin accepted one as well—humility was not an orthodox virtue of the Agion, but temperance often demanded it.
The stew from the camp pot was certainly hot and meaty, but little else, with thick globules of fat drifting in the broth.
‘I can have better fare prepared,’ Afondir said, watching Torin eat.
‘I am only a servant of the Church, My Lord,’ Torin said, trying to keep the nausea from his voice. He coughed, then went on more quietly. ‘And often forced to endure much worse. Such as travelling nearly an entire day without warning.’
Afondir’s nearly constant smile took on a venomous twist. ‘There is an opportunity here, though you are blind to it.’
At last, the Count of Afondir’s true face.
Torin smiled back. ‘Enlighten me.’
Afondir swept his gaze to be sure no unwanted ears were lingering near the pavilion.
‘These bandits in Glascoed are more than that. A rebellion has long simmered in the woods and is near to boiling. Now they steal raw iron openly—entire wagons of it! With the king’s death, they see a moment of chaos in which to strike, and make their preparations.
That iron was bound for Cilbran and its constant war against the rimewolves of the northlands, but it will be just as useful in a war against the crown.
Parwys retains control by the threat of ancient magics.
To have any hope of success—whatever they aspire to—these rebels will need a shield of raw iron against the magic of the druids and a sword to carve through their defences. ’
‘I see.’ Torin stirred his viscous stew, glad that intrigue had blunted his hunger. ‘And what opportunity do you see in this?’
Afondir chuckled softly. ‘Why do you think young Ifan is so agitated? So desperate to handle the search himself?’
Torin let himself absorb Afondir’s insinuation.
An opportunity indeed, though more for the count than for the Church.
The path to bringing Parwys into the light of virtue would be easiest if Owyn’s rule was strong.
His embrace of the Church would then filter down to the rest of his court, and the loyal nobility, and thence to the common folk.
That was the strategy that had won Alberon, and the Ecclesiarch had hope for much the same here.
The days of the Church’s growth by the sword and blood had passed.
Afondir’s intemperate ambition would complicate things.
While his mind followed myriad implications, Torin thoughtlessly spooned stew into his mouth, and nearly gagged.