The Eagle’s Flight - Chapter 215

As another day dawned, the king took breakfast in his chambers as usual. Ever since the Adalthing, he had rarely left his quarters except to appear at the noon and evening meals, allowing his court to see their ruler. And even at this early hour, he took visitors.

“Lord Doran is ready, my king.”

“Send him in.”

The highlander entered swiftly, wearing a broad smile. “My lord king,” he said in greeting.

“Welcome back,” Brand replied in between chewing on cold fowl. “I trust by your expression that news is good?”

“They are.” The young man nodded. “I would have shared them last night, but the hour of my arrival was late.”

“It matters little. Tell me what transpired in Heohlond. Did King Brión resist my command?”

“He did not, my lord king. He dragged his feet at first, refusing to see me for a few days. He did not dare to delay longer than that, however.”

“What happened once you met?”

“He acknowledged you as ard rí and agreed to gather the clans for the oireacht. That is when the trouble began.”

Brand frowned, drinking from a cup of ale. “How so? What happened at the gathering?”

“Some of the clans have bitter feelings against Adalrik since the rebellion. Others remembered the last time that my lord king bid the highlanders march to war, yet without asking the clan leaders.”

Brand scratched his chin, looking displeased. “I assume that was not the end of it? You claimed good news.”

“Aye. It took some effort on the king’s part. He is keen to preserve good relations with Adalrik. In the end, all the clans relented, though I suspect some will send more than others.”

“But they will come?”

“Ten thousand strong, I was told.” Doran smiled.

“How soon?”

Doran’s smile faltered. “It will take time. They must gather from across the high lands, from places with poor roads. It could be a month or longer.”

The king exhaled. “Then we must defend for a month.”

~~~~

In the southern courtyard, a carriage stood bearing the arms of Vale. The door had already been opened; the jarl and his daughter could be seen next to it.

“I do not like this,” Valerian mumbled.

“It was your idea to send us away,” Valerie pointed out.

“Why can you not go to Theodstan like Alexandra?” the jarl asked.

“Father, I will be just as safe in Isarn. Besides,” she added with a touch of red in her cheeks, “I have not seen much of Isenwald. He was most kind to extend his protection and hospitality with the enemy on our doorstep.”

“Not too long ago, he was the enemy,” Valerian grumbled. “Peace is one thing, but the young man has some nerve requesting your presence.”

“Only if that request were to be poorly received,” his daughter retorted. “I am only too happy to see his jarldom.”

“At least the boy has a proper title,” sighed the lord of Vale. “Fine. Off with you. I have plenty of work ahead of me.”

She hugged her father quickly. “Enjoy your books,” she told him, accepting his hand to enter the carriage. A servant closed the door, and the driver set the horses into motion. The jarl watched as the last of his family left Middanhal. Elsewhere in the yard, other noblemen bid their wives, children, aged parents, and other relatives farewell in the same manner.

Outside the Citadel, commoners began the same journey whether by cart, horseback, or foot. They sought Isarn or Theodstan as well or beyond to Vidrevi or Heohlond, wherever safe refuge or accommodating kinsfolk might be found. At the prospect of yet another war, another siege, the hardships of the road seemed preferable to the anxious comforts of the city. Little by little, the streets grew quiet.

~~~~

A map of Middanhal lay across the table in the king’s outer chamber. Next to it stood the captain of the city guard, Sir Theobald, holding a list from the quartermaster. “When we have finished conscripting the North, we should have twenty thousand soldiers,” he said. “We will be able to garrison the city fully.”

“But most of our forces are levies, and many of the Order soldiers are newly recruited. In fact, the Red Hawks may be the most experienced fighting force at our disposal,” Brand pointed out, standing on the opposite side of the table.

An expression ran across the captain’s face at the mention of the mercenary company. “A month will help whip our recruits into shape, and same for the levies. But the king is correct,” Theobald conceded. “We must position knights along with our few experienced Order soldiers on every stretch between towers,” he suggested. “Meanwhile, the Hawks should defend the gate in full numbers.”

“We must spread out the levies as much as possible,” Brand considered. “Our enemy has only trained, hardened troops. If they gain a foothold in the wrong place, they will decimate our conscripts.”

“I will do what I can, but inevitably, some parts of the walls will be more lightly defended.”

“What are our possibilities to reinforce?”

The captain pointed at different places in Lowtown on the map. “Most of our troops will be quartered in these locations. They will be able to reach the majority of the defences in half an hour. Flags atop the towers will alert them to where the fighting is.”

“Good,” Brand muttered. “Where are the weak points?”

“The edges, where the walls meet the mountains,” Theobald explained. “They will have the fewest troops, but most of them will be Order soldiers. And longbowmen on the adjacent towers should be able to provide support.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Here and here.” The captain’s finger prodded the map twice. “Those are furthest from reinforcements, and I have no experienced troops left. Not if we are to defend the outer towers and the gatehouse with strong numbers.”

“Have Sir Richard take charge of one place and Sir Fionn the other.”

The captain cleared his throat. “My king, Sir Fionn was at the battle in Ingmond.”

“Right.” Brand closed his eyes momentarily, exhaling deeply. “Choose the knights that seem best to you. Two for each place that they might relieve each other.”

“Very well, my king.”

“If they should breach our defences, what is our situation?”

“Not good,” Theobald admitted. “Nearly all our troops are in Lowtown to be able to reinforce. If they get through the walls, they can advance to the Arnsbridge and hold it with relative ease. We in the Citadel will be cut off from most of our troops.”

“And the fighting will continue in Lowtown itself, chaotic and scattered. Allowing their greater numbers to wear our forces down,” Brand continued.

“Exactly, my king. The city will be lost.”

“Unless… unless we collapse the Arnsbridge.”

The captain frowned. “Is that even possible? It would take days for men with pickaxes to cut through the stone, and the bridge is set too low for any ram to hit.”

“That is a question for the engineers. Once they have finished preparing their war engines, have them figure out how to destroy the bridge.” With a worn look, Brand sat down.

“Yes, my king. With your leave, I will return to my preparations.” The captain began rolling up the map.

“You have my leave.”

The captain bowed and left swiftly.

~~~~

In the north-western quarter of Middanhal lay a large building, similar in size and shape to a guildhall. It served as an assembly for the Dwarves of the city and the personal residence of the dvalinn, leader of their kindred in Adalrik. Inside his private study, he sat with a guest.

“Lord Ivaldi, the time has come!” Godfrey impressed upon him.

The dvalinn sat in a great chair, placed by a fireside. His visitor stood on the other side of the glowing embers, kept dormant for now. “Simple words, yet they demand complicated actions.”

“Every other dvalinn would agree with me,” Godfrey claimed.

“Of course they would. They would share in the spoils with none of the risk. I am the dvalinn who must ask his people to sacrifice themselves. To defend and die for these sons of Men.” The Dwarf scraped his tongue against his teeth. “And when promises prove to be empty as before? When my people show their dead to me, and I must tell them it was for nothing?”

“Middanhal is your home as well. Fighting to defend it could never be the wrong choice.”

Ivaldi scoffed. “Home. Our guilds are controlled by outsiders, and we may not own the houses we call home. During the day, we labour in the forges of the Citadel, yet we are sent away at nightfall.”

“Dvarheim was your home, and it was lost,” Godfrey argued. “This is your chance to retake it. For the first time in eleven hundred years, the Godking has left his mountain!”

Ivaldi picked up a rune-stave. As his fingers ran across the carvings, he looked at Godfrey. “Aye, the other Dwarf-lords agree with you. They all wish for me to risk my people for the sake of a dream.”

“If the Mearcians march on Dvarheim, the other Dwarf-houses will join.”

“If,” the dvalinn repeated. “Eleven hundred years ago, the Godking was wounded. His armies in disarray. Yet the forest lords abandoned us, and the sons of Men lacked the courage to finish the fight. Why should I believe this will be different? With the South Cities threatening Adalmearc, I reckon this high king will look to his own lands first.”

“The king understands the necessity to end the threat from the Godking once and for all,” the wanderer claimed. “Not to mention, you have blood under the mountain awaiting you.”

“Are they blood? More than a thousand years of separation,” Ivaldi considered.

“What if your warriors would determine the difference between victory and defeat? Because I promise you, Lord Ivaldi, if the Godking takes this city, you will share the fate of your estranged kin. You will know thraldom with no hope of aid, for none will be left to render it.”

The Dwarf-lord stared into the embers of the fireplace. “I will give it due consideration.”

Clenching his jaw, Godfrey remained silent and walked away.

~~~~

The king sat, poring over parchments with long rows of numbers. Made by the quartermaster of the Order, they listed available provisions in the Citadel and elsewhere in the city, sometimes based on assumptions or estimates. Other rows showed calculations, explaining how long the city might last in a siege, taking into account further provisions available from northern Adalrik. Besides that, pieces of parchment detailed the weapon stores and other supplies needed. Moving from one to another, Brand let his eyes slowly move through the numbers and calculations.

“May I have a moment, dear brother?”

Brand looked up to find Arndis standing in his outer chamber. “I should have read this in my study,” he mumbled. “I have already been aggrieved once today,” he added, grabbing a letter to wave it around. “I would hope you have not come to add another grievance.”

Looking at the letter, Arndis frowned. “What is it?”

“A reply from Prince Saif, commander of Alcázar’s armies. I thought the knowledge of a new king in Middanhal would give him pause. Perhaps consider negotiating peace rather than risk facing our full might, but he must feel secure given the outlanders are at our gates.”

“He is not inclined to negotiate, I take it.”

Brand shook his head. “He has the gall to claim their invasion is a response to attacks made by reeves acting on our behalf. Setting fires to their city, abducting a daughter of the Kabir, and so on. As if this war is anything but an attempt at brute conquest, yet he would lay the guilt at my feet.” He tossed the letter back on his desk.

A pensive expression came over Arndis. “Aggravating indeed,” she muttered.

“But you came here with a purpose in mind. What is it?”

“I have not come on my own behalf,” she clarified. “I would ask that you listen to a request.”

“From whom?”

“Athelstan.”

Brand sighed. “Really? You will force this upon me?”

“Given his service to you recently, it would be kind of you to listen.”

Brand rubbed his eyes before piling his parchments together. “Fine. Tell him to be brief.”

“Of course.” Arndis left on swift steps.

A few moments later, Athelstan appeared, giving a bow. “My king.”

“I am told you have a request.”

“Yes. It concerns Eumund.”

Brand’s features softened slightly. “What of him?”

“Isenhart does not know. I could send him a message, of course, but it feels cowardly. He should be told, face to face, what happened to his son.”

The king nodded to himself. “You need permission to visit. I see.”

“By your grace, my king.”

Brand stood up and walked over to a small writing desk. Grabbing a quill, he wrote a few lines on parchment. Melting some red wax to drip onto the bottom, he stamped his signet ring onto it. “Here. This will grant you passage.”

He extended the missive towards Athelstan, who meanwhile had been studying the chessboard on a small table next to the desk. “I am grateful,” the knight declared, receiving the parchment while bowing his head. He cleared his throat, nodding towards the board. “Who are you playing?”

“None. I am simply practising a new opening.”

Athelstan hesitated as he spoke again. “Would my king wish to try against an opponent?” He tapped the edge of the missive against one of the jarl pieces.

Brand let out his breath, staring at the knight. “Fine. Set it up.”