Chapter 35 #2
It was nearly noon by the time Fola and Colm descended to the hall of Glascoed keep.
On their way, they heard the clack of practice swords through the window from the courtyard below.
Llewyn was putting Damon through his paces, continuing the training Colm had begun the day before.
Fola wondered whether this was Llewyn’s idea or Damon’s—in either case, such maniacal dedication to martial training arose from a misguided desire to protect Siwan.
That gave it a certain charm, even if the girl wasn’t in the sort of danger that swords could defend against. And if it were that sort of danger, a few days of practice wouldn’t make Damon any use as her guardian.
The hall itself was lit by vast windows, their shutters open to the late morning sun.
Faded cooking smells of meat and spices told of a meal just served.
Fola’s stomach rumbled after quite an active morning, and she hoped the kitchen still had a few portions left.
A long table ran the length of the hall, with benches to either side.
Siwan, Harwick and Spil sat at one end in quiet conversation, Spil with one of Harwick’s shirts spread out for mending.
Siwan spotted Fola and Colm arriving together and waggled her eyebrows with a knowing smile.
At the other end of the table, Ifan played host to four strangers, all dressed more for hunting—or for war—than for court.
As they entered, Ifan stood and waved Fola over.
Colm gave the count and his company one look, squeezed Fola’s shoulder, then made for a seat across from Harwick.
Much as she would have preferred to get a meal and a cup or two of tea in her first, Fola went to join the count.
Working on an empty stomach would be the consequence for that morning’s indulgences.
‘I trust you slept well?’ Ifan said. Though his face showed the bags and creases of fatigue, his eyes were alert as ever. Like a fox in flight from baying hounds.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Fola took a seat on the bench near him. She noted, with interest, that he sat alongside these other folk rather than at the head of the table, as nobles tended to. ‘Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?’
‘Is it true you came from the City of the Wise?’ blurted out a young woman seated to Ifan’s left—slight and mouse-coloured, with open, enthusiastic features.
Fola fixed Ifan with a searching look, then turned back to the young woman. ‘I am, yes. I see Ifan has heralded my appearance.’
The young woman shook her head and leaned back in her seat, visibly as astonished by Fola’s answer as Fola had been by the enthusiasm of the question.
Ifan cleared his throat, then gestured to the man across from him—thin, black-and-silver-haired, with a thick wash of stubble on his chin and a well-lined face that told of hard living.
‘Fola, this is Gavron Feld,’ he said. ‘You’ll not have heard his name, but he has done more for our cause than anyone. ’
Gavron dipped his head. ‘It is an honour, Fola … Do you have some patronym, or moniker? Or is it simply Fola, and the City has no need for such things?’
‘Just Fola,’ she answered, then took in the count’s companions with more attentive eyes. Their clothes were torn and roughly mended. Their hands calloused, their faces all weather-beaten. ‘You’re the bandits,’ she said. ‘Or their leaders, anyway.’
Gavron barked a laugh. ‘Bandits … Yes, I suppose we are. But when you plot even greater crimes, what’s a bit of light theft?’
‘Gavron leads those who would free the Greenwood,’ Ifan explained. ‘Last night, I sent a bird to call him in—to meet you, and so that we can make a plan of action. Little did I know that he would bring news of his own.’
Gavron nodded, his face suddenly grave. ‘Poor news, at that. Yesterday, our scouts near Miggenbrot sighted a combined force of Parwysh, Afondish and Cilbrain knights and foot soldiers, with a complement of Forgardian hand-cannoneers, crossing the Afoneang. Some twenty-five hundred men, all told. Less than a fifth the full might of the kingdom assembled, and far from enough to hunt us all down in the depths of the forest. But a force plenty strong enough to surround this castle and more than we can hope to best in the field.’
‘You’ll not withstand a siege, neither,’ said the man to Gavron’s right—a squat, bearded fellow with a single eye in the centre of his forehead. ‘Those hand-cannon will take a volley or ten to turn the gate to splinters, but they will turn the gate to splinters.’
Ifan chuckled wryly. ‘We spent so much effort to secure raw iron thinking we would face the druids and the power of the Old Stones, and instead it is Forgard’s innovations that will bring us down.’
‘We’ll face the Old Stones, too,’ Gavron said. ‘By our reports, the prince carries Abal’s Hammer.’
Fola felt a chill. Ynyr’s ghost had shown her clearly enough what that weapon could do.
‘Can he wield it? He is not crowned,’ Ifan said, turning to his court druid, a grey-haired woman with raven’s feathers and antlers braided into her hair—the same who had observed Fola’s spell at the World Clock and left in a huff, muttering accusations of blasphemy.
‘Tradition would hold that a fortnight of meditation is needed for a king of Parwys to command the true depths of the hammer’s power,’ the druid said. ‘But the druids of Miggenbrot teach many things. Not all are true.’
‘Sorry, are you not one of the druids?’ Fola asked.
The old woman grunted. ‘I am, but of an older sort. Of the deep wood. Of the powers of earth and root, stream and starlight. The Old Stones, and the powers they keep, are as much a blasphemy as that nonsense you were spouting yesterday.’
‘You just can’t accept that she may know more than we do,’ the mousy young woman to Fola’s left muttered.
‘Still your tongue, child Robiann,’ the old druidess hissed, leaning across the table. ‘An apprentice ought to sit quiet and learn, not mutter ill-informed opinions!’
‘This is all beside the point,’ Gavron said, annoyed. ‘Whether Owyn wields the power of the Old Stones or no, you will not hold the castle against a siege. Had we weeks to muster every willing man of the wood, we might repel them, if only to force their return with a greater horde.’
Ifan drummed his fingers on the table. He looked to Fola, his expression questioning and hopeful. ‘I don’t suppose your spells might lend us aid?’
Fola winced. ‘I’m a fair hand in a fight, but war is not my art. I could reinforce the gates with thaumaturgy, perhaps lay some traps, but nothing to turn the tide. I’m sorry.’
The bearded cyclops barked a laugh. ‘If you can set those gates to hold against Forgardian guns, I’ll shit.’
‘Ignore Calbog, and don’t apologise. It isn’t your war.’ Ifan shook his head. ‘I am only sorry your mission has made you party to our danger. What I can’t fathom is what roused Owyn’s suspicions enough for him to risk delaying his coronation.’
‘Afondir?’ Gavron ventured.
‘Owyn has less reason to trust him than to trust me,’ Ifan said. ‘Bloody Stones, I should have spoken up more. Told Owyn of Afondir’s dealings with the Mortal Church.’
‘This had to happen sooner or later,’ Calbog said matter-of-factly, as though burgeoning civil war were no worse than a bad winter.
‘No matter that Owyn was your friend, no king of Parwys would ever grant Glascoed its freedom willingly. Afondir would be asking next, and then Forgard could march straight north and right up the capital’s arse.
And even if Owyn gave in, his successor would be right back here with an army and that bloody hammer to reclaim what he’d given away. It was always to be war, Ifan.’
‘More so now, if we’re to end the haunting.’ Ifan leaned back, his hands curling into fists. ‘We fight now for more than a free Glascoed, but for an end to all Parwysh tyranny. Recompense for the slaughter of your ancestors—the end of Abal’s line.’
Murmurs drifted around the table, followed by a strained silence.
‘Our cause is hopeless, then?’ Robiann whimpered.
‘You could flee,’ Fola said.
All their eyes turned to her.
‘Yesterday, you seemed well determined to end the haunting,’ Ifan said.
‘If the struggle is hopeless, there’s no reason to risk your lives,’ Fola pointed out, heat rising in her face—from frustration as much as embarrassment.
‘If what you want is freedom, the City will welcome you with open arms. I could lead you there. It is a long road, and not without danger, but once you reach its walls you will never know tyranny again. Let the haunting continue as a just punishment for the sins of the kingdom’s past.’
Robiann’s eyes lit up. She looked to Ifan and Gavron, her hands folded under her chin. The druidess scowled and spat on the table, while Calbog tugged at his beard in obvious agitation.
‘And would you have us round up every soul in the Greenwood and take them with us?’ Gavron asked.
‘How many would go willingly, do you think?’ He smiled gently and shook his head.
‘Many in Glascoed—in the whole world, I imagine—were raised on tales of your City, Fola. Most dismissed them as no more than tales. Much as they dismissed tales of Barwon’s betrayal. ’
Ifan scowled at that; Gavron pressed on, as though taking no notice.
‘Some of us, though we had no certainty, chose to believe that the City of the Wise truly did exist, somewhere. A fact is more powerful than a symbol, and the example of something real—of a place where life is lived as you dream it might be—makes efforts feel worthwhile that might otherwise seem in vain. But Glascoed was such a place, too, in its past. A harder place, maybe, without the blessings of the First Folk. But a free place, where lives were lived well, without fear of tyranny. It is our home, and we would see it become such a place again.’
‘Well said!’ Calbog roared, pounding his fist on the table.
‘But if it is hopeless …’ Ifan ventured.