Days and nights went by and still not a word from anyone, other than a vague letter from the King saying to wait for word. It came three days after the Bastard Brigade arrived, the sole response to many increasingly frantic letters asking for instructions. Tauron sent letters to Raenna, Blackfield and Raingaurd but not responses came from either until now. And that little note just said wait for instructions. From who? The King? Lord Ryden? The whole reason that this army was assembled was to provide reinforcements for the Westland should they need it. As more and more refugees come out from the Rainwood, the rumors get more and more dire. Yet there was no word from Lord Horith. Has he already been killed? According to some yes, but to others no.
And now the Bastards are causing trouble. There have been three reported rapes and a brawl with Nakbar and his men at a brothel. The Nakbar himself has sent letters to the Prince demanding to know what was going to happen. They wanted action, and they wanted their gold. If they were going to sit around for days on end, they want to at least have some assurances about the integrity of their deal.
Tauron disliked the company of others at the moment. They would do nothing but ask questions for which he had no clear answers. Same questions day in and day out. Why his father grayed so early in life was no clear to him. He probably had a few grays already after all this madness, despite only being of twenty-two years. The fact that he was so young made it worse. Elder members of the war council were looking down on him behind his back. Nicholi Gramman, Ulysses, Clayton Blackwell. Even Sir Julius, who was only four years his elder. Even Jon Malken was beginning to seem like a competent commander in their eyes. At least he ate, drank and sleep, and came to the meetings with a clear mind.
There was only one that the Prince could talk to in solace. Helg, his dear Helg. Though the heir to Tanner Hall had grown more cynical in the years at Blackfield, he had now lost an ounce of his ability to comfort Tauron when none others were willing or knowledgeable. Perhaps they would continue the tradition of a Heflite on the Throne and a Velrock by his side. That is how it has always been since Tauron's great grandfather took the throne after the fall of the Lanray Dynasty. It was a debate that nearly came to arms over which Duke, Ardor of Heflite or Heldon of Velrock would marry the last survivor of the fallen royal family. In the end, Ardor was chosen and the Lords of the Northern Crossing became the Kings of Liticea. But at their side, was the Velrock family. The two families over the last century worked together so much that the people spoke that there were two royal families in Liticea. It was amazing to think that the two houses have yet to join together through the blood of their children. But there never was a suitable son or a suitable daughter to join them at any one time. Tauron and Helg secretly agreed that if one were to have a son and the other were to have a daughter they would have them married and they would be brothers in blood and spirit.
Helg had the ability to make light of any situation. Even the Bastards got a laugh out of him. The country had a strange system of justice, he said to Tauron the night after the Brigade arrived, if one rapes and murders and gets arrested, they can either lose their head or they come to the Swampland. There they rape and murder with Desmond Guale's blessing. The country did not have a strange system, Tauron thought, Desmond Guale had that system. King Austin denounced it, even Duke Yorod denounced it, but the Swampland was a vassal in name only. The swamps were Desmond's kingdom and he was their king.
How Helg could make that a joke, or anything was beyond Tauron. Nevertheless, Helg remained a pillar that helped the Prince stand tall when he wanted to sit down.
When Helg was not around, Tauron only had the company of Robert Oaran. He was a dull boy. When the Prince spoke, he never looked him in the eye and when the Prince was not speaking he would slink away into a corner and hover, his face drooping and his hands cupped together at his waist. One would not think that he was to travel into the Westland. Lord Oaran must have had a lot of faith in the Sorcerer Prince to be sending his son into the Rainwood with him. Oaran bragged that his son could become a fine swordsmen, but the boy looked as if he had spend more time handling forks and spoons than swords.
At that moment, Robert was not there. He was doing whatever squires do when their masters were busy. Tauron was happy to have some alone time without having to listen to that faint, stuffy breathing coming from the corner. Whenever the Prince spoke, the boy would jump as if a mouse ran across his foot. It was nice to not have to worry about the bou pissing himself on the floor of his chambers. Wouldn't that be something Helg would never let him forget, he said to himself.
Sitting in his chair, the Prince was smoking some good Rainwood leaf. He acquired a taste for it when he swiped some from Malken after he had thrashed him around. Whenever he ran out, he would go to Helg who somehow had a huge stash in his satchel. They kept it between themselves because the Rainwood Leaf was a means of connecting to the Gods according to the Westlanders and for a follower of Rannos to indulge in it might be considered heresy, especially if that one is the Crowned Prince.
That did not stop the common folk from turning it into a business. A hundred years ago, if one were caught for it he would be forced to repent by a priest of Rannos. But soon, it seemed everyone in Liticea was using it, including the priests! And slowly, it began to be more and more widely accepted. It is still; technically a violation, but there are few who care to pursue justice except for the most adamant zealots.
It was clear why men like Malken used it. A feeling of floating atop the clouds came over him as the Prince breathed in the substance. The Morcars, the Brigade, and everyone around all floated away and he was in his own little, tranquil state. A disturbance came when Robert suddenly came running in, catching the Prince as he was floating the highest.
"My Prince," he said.
"What, boy?" Tauron said angrily. When he was under the influence of the Leaf, his actions were not always rational. The boy was terrified as froze as soon as the Prince spoke. in his hands were two letters.
"L-l-l..." he tried to speak, but his red plump face was turning white.
"Out with it!"
"Two letters arrived," Robert squeaked.
"Unless they're important take it away. I'm very busy, boy!"
"One's from Rainguard, and the other is from Anthre," he said, tears of fright visibly building up in his eye.
"What?" the Prince threw his pipe down and sprung up. Robert was rather short for his age and the Prince was an imposing figure from his view. The poor squire turned his face away and braced himself when the Prince rushed over and swiped the letters out of his hands.
"You may go," the Prince said and as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him, Robert Oaran was out the door.
Rainguard! Raenna! The two places he most desperately needed to hear from have now finally answered his calls. A grin was spread across the Prince's face, he now had some direction. He would have something to do, a place to go, and not have to chase the rumors of traumatized refugees.
He decided to open the letter from Rainguard first. It was in a neat envelope with the seal of House Riden binding it shut. It read:
To the Commander of the Reinforcements,
You must proceed with all haste to Rainguard. We have suffered defeat after defeat on the North Road, and the South is quickly being overrun. As I am writing this, the Morcar Army now marches on Rainguard and my father remains defiant. So I am taking it upon myself to beg for you to march west as quickly as possible. If Rainguard and the Ridens fall, all the rest of Liticea will fall too. We can stand siege, but if they assault the castle, I do not know if we can stop them. So I appeal to you to make your way west.
Yours,
James Ryden, heir apparent of the Rainguard, future Duke of the Westland.
Anyone else would have been at the very least troubled by the news. Perhaps it was the Leaf, but Tauron never felt more excited in all his life. It was time to march west, it was time to prove to the world the greatness that will be Tauron Heflite, King of Liticea.
The writer was not Horith Ryden himself, but a call for aid from any Ryden was good enough for Tauron at the moment.
He felt like jumping up and down, but he still had to read the other letter. It was sealed with the Owl of House Heflite. But something made him hesitate. King Austin was no doubt saying in the letter that he was not to go west and he would be stuck in this forsaken castle for who knows how much longer.
Or maybe he would be saying that she was to proceed as the Rydens requested. But the former situation seemed much more likely. If he read it and it said to say, it would take weeks for more instructions to arrive and all the while the Westland would continue to burn until the Morcars were outside the gates of Anton.
"Robert!" he called. The boy came rushing in his pits soaked in sweat.
"One of these letters is going to be burned," Tauron said, "I'm going to put this letter in the fire. If you tell anyone of this I will... turn you into a frog and give you to the Bastard."
The boy now looked absolutely terrified. His droopy mouth hung open in a silent scream and the pupils of his eyes shrunk down to the size of a bug.
"Do you understand, Robert Oaran? Are you going to obey your Prince?"
"Yes! Yes! Yes! Please don't hurt me!"
Tauron smiled cruelly, it must be the Leaf, but he was getting some joy scaring the hell out of the young man. His hand fell on the boy's shoulder and Robert flinched as if a hot iron touched him, "Now be a good boy, and assemble a council meeting with your father and the others. Tell him that we're moving out."
Robert sprinted out even faster than before. Tauron thought it looked so funny that he nearly fell over himself laughing. When he was done, he tossed the letter from his father into the fireplace.
"What kind of men can we call ourselves if we do not protect our own kingdom?" Tauron shouted at the council. He informed them of the plea for help sent by James Ryden and it was unanimously agreed on that they should not march.
"The kind who lives, my Prince," spoke Ulysses, "If we run head first into the Westland we will run straight into Morcar shields and spears.
"We don't have the men. Not with twenty thousand can we do this!" Martin Bailor exclaimed.
"For once Lord Bailor is right," Nicholi spoke, his right hand and all three fingers of it were planted firmly on the table, "If we go we will be annihilated and will leave the rest of Liticea vulnerable."
Tauron has met opposition in his ranks before, but never like this. Before the talks were all hypothetical. It was not a question of when but if. They could not march without the right signal from wither the King or Horith Ryden. They did not see Jame Ryden's words as important and with no word from the King that they knew of, they had no initiative to go.
Tauron could not believe the cowardice he felt in the room. Some of these men rode alongside his father during the Corasian War and fought beneath the walls of Brother's Crossing. Now they were too scared to go and fight some savages from the west.
"How can you all say this? You're all veterans of war. Why do you now not march? Many of you were eager to go march just a week ago. We had a whole plan ready and most of you were eager to go."
"That was before we learned the Morcars were on Rainguard's doorstep," spoke Lord Blackwell, "At best we can make it in three weeks, but by then they will have Horith Ryden's head on a spike."
"And as Lord Bailor said we are marching with only half of what you hoped for, my Prince. What do you expect to do?"
"I expect to stop the Morcar invasion."
"And that is very noble my Prince but you will need more in order to send my armies to their deaths," to everyone's surprise, it was Lord Oaran who just scolded the Prince.
"Heir, heir!" Oaran's vassals all sounded their agreement. No doubt they all had low opinions of Horith Ryden.
"I will not die for the Bloody Duke!" yelled Baron Harold Arrington.
"Then die for Liticea, if you must," the Prince replied, "We all have a duty to not just our own lands and people but to each other. It matters not your opinions of another Duke or Baron, because if we do not stand together we will fall."
"I will die for the Liticea any day. I will not die for the Westland!"
"The Westland is Liticea."
"The Westland will never be Liticea!" the pudgy form of Yorod Dayvey IV yelled, "I refuse to acknowledge a land that does recognize the divinity of Rannos Litikus as part of my country."
"Whether they recognize Rannos or not, Lord Dayvey, Horith Ryden still bends the knee to my father. Any man who bends the knee to the King is one of his subjects. The Westland is a part of Syandor, and I will not let it be destroyed."
"They are a part in name only," Ulysses said, "They would happily reignite the Rorchistyr Rebellion."
"But they remain submissive," an important point for Helg to point out.
"They fear the wrath of the Ryden's more than they thirst for independence."
"They fear the wrath of Horith Ryden. Jame Ryden is but a paper lion. And Killian, the Warpig does not have the brains to run a country as his father."
"Which is why we must save him before it's too late," Tauron exclaimed.
"Even f we do save him, Prince Tauron," Nicholi Gramman began to speak, "Horith has seen more winters than myself. If we do save him, how much longer will he last? He has ruled the Westland for nearly sixty years. He is only a decade and a half younger than your family's dynasty. Perhaps, Liticea's grasp of the Westland was doomed to die with Horith."
"What are you suggesting, Lord Gramman?" the young Martin Bailor asked, "That we should just hand the Westland over to traitors?"
"No, but without a man such as Horith how can we possibly hope to keep it. Why should we enter it if we are doomed to lose it with the passing of Horith the Bloody. As you men said his sons are not men that can ruled such a land. What I am saying is that it is not wise to try to save, what you will eventually lose. Even if we do save Raingaurd and drive away the Morcars, all our efforts will be in vain. The Craxton's and other houses will rally to their bloated claim to the Rainwood and what will come is a long war for which the crown of Liticea will have no hope of ever winning."
Though Tauron could not admit it, he knew they were right. Even if the Morcars were turned back, the fallout from the destruction would likely be another rebellion for the Westland to gain independence.
It could be that way, or it could go another way.
"You're all speaking as if you know the heart and the mind of the Westland citizen," Tauron spoke. He stood from his chair to full height. He was taller than most, but with all of them looking up at him from their seats he felt as tall as the great statue of Rannos in the Courtyard.
"There are now sixty years of history of the Westland and the Crown beng one. In that time the Westland has grown more in population and in wealth. Sure the older lords will gripe about the glory days of the Rorchistyr Dynasty. But the young Lords know the benefits of being a part, even if they must be ruled by Horith Ryden. But with this new threat, if we were to stop the Morcars and save the realm, they would know for certain that they belonged with us. With the Morcar's blood on our swords we would march through the streets of Muscavra, Sarabath, and even Craxton Keep and they would see heroes, not conquerors. They would ask us why we came to help when we could have stayed home safe in our castles whilst a land that did not even share a God with us was burned. To them I would say we came, because of glory, because of honor, because of duty, and most importantly we are all Litici. They would ask why they came and fought for men women and children a world away and we would say that all who kneel before my King are my brothers and sisters. My Countrymen. My fellow Litici."
The room was quiet. Few men here identified themselves much outside their duchies or their own lands.
"And let us say that the Westlanders drove the Morcars away themselves. What would history say of us? The supposed mighty army of Liticea stood by whilst the West turned back the tide of annihilation. A thousand years from now, those who read that history would say that they had every right to leave the country. They had every right, because what kind of men can we call ourselves while our brothers are out there dying, fighting a war on their doorstep to keep it from coming to ours. How can we call ourselves men if we are unwilling to look death in the face and laugh as the men of Raingaurd, Muscavra, and Craxton's Keep are willing to do?"
"My fellow, Litici. Do not see this campaign as a quest to save the life of Horith the Bloody. See it as an opportunity to show our brothers in the west that we are willing to fight and die for them. If we do that, then they will do the same for us. they will know that they belong with us, that Liticea is meant to be whole. Only when it is whole can it be strong."
No man spoke when Tauron finished. looking into every set of eyes in the room, the Prince felt confident that he may have touched something. These looks they were giving him were not the look of men looking down on what he said, but thinking about it. despite his confidence, Tauron was still anxious to hear their thoughts as the science continued to drag on until finally, Rengle Fallaner stood up.
"I may have low opinion of the Westland and an even lower opinion of Horith Ryden, but the pits of hell will freeze over before I allow the Morcars to pillage my country without justice," he drew his sword and held it high in the air, "Prince Tauron, the swords, spears, and bows of Ruska and Carell Keep are yours."
Rengle was but a low-ranking Baron with non remarkable set of lands, but all men in the room knew what he did at Brother's Crossing. One by one the Lords of Forthren pledged their swords to the Prince. Lord Oaran did so, as did Cassius, Yorod Dayvey, Martin, and Clayton Blackwell. Oaran's vassals all pledged once their archbaron agreed to. Though he had no me n to offer, Jon Malken to stepped forward and pledged that the Westland shall be the brother of Liticea now and forever. Only Nicholi remained in his seat. His hands and fingers, both present and missing were held together in a nervous knot.
"Lord Nicholi, are you still not convinced?" Tauron asked.
"I fear the outcome of this quest, my Prince. Though I am against it, it would be a disgrace to the Gramman name for me to go home. You shall have my sword as well. I still have a few fingers to lose," all the Lords around him laughed and patted him on the back. Tauron had his army back. The next day, they would march west to whatever fate awaited them.