A mounted knight rose the crest just north of Castle Araluen and reined in his horse. He patted its neck soothingly as thanks for its willingness for the overnight journey from which he had just returned. It was mid-morning and the brisk clouds were clearing away, giving the graceful castle a pale gold glow. The grizzled knight loved this sight; the fact that he had seen it too many times to count did nothing to lessen the beauty of the building. Finished with his brief check and moment of woolgathering, he nudged his horse onward and it responded with a slow, relaxed trot. Due to the urgency of this mission, he was tempted to urge it faster but was logical enough to know that the horse was exhausted. He also knew that five minutes' difference wouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things.
He rode under the drawbridge after exchanging pleasantries with the sentries on duty, then dismounted and looped one arm through his horse's reins while he stretched his back, thumping his fists into the small of it. The ache that this caused bore testimony to the fact that he was no longer a young man, as he liked to think he was. So did the color of his normally close-cropped beard, which had been black but was now salt-and-pepper gray.
The Chamberlain, walking by, noticed the tired rider and a look of delight crossed his face when he realized who it was, almost immediately replaced by a small frown of concern. "A pleasure to see you again, Sir Gael! But were you not in the north, dealing with the Scotti?"
Gael nodded gravely. "Aye, I was," he concurred. "But the battles are going badly. I was sent south again to report our losses."
The Chamberlain nodded his understanding. "You will be needing to see the King, then," he said, and without waiting for a reply he shouted to a page coming out of the keep stables. The boy came up to them and accepted the reins to Gael's chestnut horse. The horse followed him gratefully into the stables. Gael, after seeing that his horse was tended to, set up the stairs for the King's office on the fourth floor of the keep.
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King Herbert stared at him, aghast. "Three hundred and fifty?" he exclaimed, incredulous.
The aging knight nodded. It was only the fifth time the King had said that, each time in the same exact tone of disbelief. "Yes," he answered simply. "And a further four dozen wounded. As you know only too well, we sent up five hundred foot troopers, one hundred and fifty cavalrymen, and ninety archer units. Ten of the archers are included in the wounded, but they were all alive when I left. That leaves one hundred and ten cavalry, one hundred and ninety remaining foot troopers, and the eighty other archer units. And the raids are becoming more organized. It is quite possible that they will be launching an actual invasion soon."
The King slammed his hand down on the table, the palm making a sharp crack that echoed the angry monarch's feelings. Simultaneously, he let go a few curses and quickly made a gesture of apology to the other man.
Gael shrugged, understanding the man's feelings. Still, he needed to let the King know the extent of the bad news. "The reason I was sent down in the first place, apart from the fact that I'm getting a bit old for combat, is that we ran out of report pigeons. Baron Rolland of Macindaw refused to supply us with more. The same goes when we requested more men from him."
The King snorted in disgust. "Typical! Rolland does not care about anything or anyone but himself and his well-being. He would probably join the Scotti if they paid him enough."
Gael said nothing but agreed with his King. The fact was, Araluen was practically in anarchy. The previous few generations of Kings had not exactly done much to endear the Barons to the ruler or each other, and the result was the current condition of the country. The island nation was rich in farmland and had a wide variety of other landscapes – rugged forests to the north, windswept plains to the southeast, and mountainous terrain appropriately named the Spiny Mountains exactly in the center. Trouble was, no one could agree on one leader. At least four and possibly up to half a dozen separate fiefs thought that they were the prime choice, but none in that number was the King, nor were they in Araluen Fief. Baron Marshall of Redmont believed that his fief would be the best for the royal capital because of the fact that Redmont Fief was one of the largest fiefs.
Baron Trevor in Gorlan Fief was a strong, smart, and experienced supporter and friend of the King – he had sent the majority of the men north to assist in the war. The only thing the two of them disagreed on was where the royal capital should be. On previous occasions, King Herbert had been known to concur with Trevor's points that Gorlan was most likely the prettiest fief in terms of the natural landscape, but had firmly reverted back to the point that royal capitals should not be just pretty.
Then there was Baron Charles, who presided over Whitby Fief. Whitby was as close to the geographical center of the country as any of the fiefs were, with the exception of Redmont. Redmont Fief included more than half of the Spiny Mountains. Due to the fact that Whitby was in the center of the nation, it was along a major trade route and was a major intersection, a crossroads. Baron Charles was adamant about two things: Not only should his fief be the capital, but he should be King. He had been falsely led to believe that he was a relative of a previous king, a cousin three or four times removed. The truth was that Charles, although related by his ancestors' marriages into the royal family, had no royal blood. King Herbert had displayed the family trees out for him on numerous occasions but Charles had been unswayed.
King Herbert's own viewpoint on why Castle Araluen should be the capital was simple. It was traditional. The castle had been built six Kings prior – one hundred and fifty years ago, roughly, in the time of King Prescott the Conqueror. Prescott had been the King that established the Mountains of Rain and Night as part of Araluen. It had previously been a part of Celtica, due to the fact that there were many useful metals deep under the rock. Prescott had also been the King that moved the Araluen border about twenty kilometers north, into what had been Picta. The Picts had never forgiven him or the Araluens for that, and the longstanding enmity continued to this day. Prescott had ordered Castle Araluen built toward the end of his reign. He had had a relatively simple, moveable fortress that he had carried with him on campaigns – Prescott acted like more of an army commander than a King. When he had been getting too old for combat, however, he wanted a permanent residence and stronghold. Castle Araluen was the result. But although Prescott had been an excellent commander and warrior, his people skills were sadly lacking. He was full of himself and demanded men from the far corners of the kingdom. He overworked them and kept them on as warriors through the harvest season. As a result, no one much liked him, and his subsequent descendants had not been much better. Many of the citizens of Araluen felt that Herbert was the first decent king in a while. He was just, fair, and active – although known to be a bit quick-tempered. He did listen to reason, however, which set him apart from his ancestors and several of the current barons.
"True," Gael agreed eventually. "Which is quite unfortunate. We need a steady, supportive ruler up in the north. The Scotti warriors have not relented and having a self-centered impromptu commander there certainly is not helping matters."
The King let go another muttered curse. "I suppose we should ask Trevor for more men," he admitted reluctantly. "But it seems there is no point in sending more men. Do you have anything to suggest?"
Gael hesitated. He had an idea, yes, but he himself found it absurd. "Yes," he prevaricated, a frown of concern on his face.
The King recognized the hesitation but wanted to know what the idea was – good or bad. "What is it?" he prompted.
Sir Gael hesitated, then took the plunge. He was a senior, trusted official, and confidante of the King and the conclusion he drew from this information was that he knew that his idea would not be simply dismissed out of hand. He reserved judgment, however, on what his monarch's reaction would be. "I think we should retreat," he said.
"What?!" the King exploded. He stared at the grizzled knight as though he had taken leave of his senses. "Why in Hern's name would we retreat?" Hern was a little-known Araluen god of battles and war strategy.
Gael waited calmly. He had half expected this, he reminded himself, and now that the idea was out in the open he was determined to go on with it. "We do not need to retreat as in giving up," the knight continued reasonably. "I just think we should withdraw to a point five kilometers or so north of Castle Macindaw. The terrain in between our current position and Castle Macindaw is terribly rugged– damned if I know why the Picts want it in the first place."
"The point is," Gael continued, "If we withdraw from the area, they may be a bit more forgiving. After all, we did basically steal it from them a couple hundred years ago. If we give it back, stop defending it, I think and hope they will see it as a peace offering. And, of course, in the event that they continue to be hostile, I will need to bring more men north."
"That should not be a problem," the King agreed, his head whirling. He had been shocked at first, but when he heard the older man's proposal he recognized the sense of it. "Although who should I send? What commanders in the Araluen garrison are clever enough to act as leaders, making snap life or death decisions?"
Gael frowned. It was a logical point, the knight thought, then he spoke again as a thought struck him. "What about your son – Anthony, right? Isn't he a good commander?"
The King's lip screwed up in a look of distaste, although he masked the expression quickly. "I guess so," he said reluctantly. Sensing that the older man was curious, he went on. "It's just that I mainly think of him as a young prankster. Time was that would be all he did in his waking hours."
Gael demurred. "However, if he's made it to a command position in the army, he must have mellowed out a bit. As you said, time was he was a prankster. Not he is a prankster."
The King shrugged, although he realized the sense in the other man's words. "There is that," he concurred. "Although if you're taking him – and the fifteen men under his command – I would appreciate it if you drilled him in weaponry. Make your own assessment of his progress and skill."
Gael nodded thoughtfully and took a final draft from the mug of small ale he had been drinking before rising for the door, taking the King's most recent words as permission to leave.
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Anthony nodded a farewell to the sentries at the drawbridge and crossed it. It was just after the eighth hour, and the drawbridge had been lowered only minutes before. He nudged the case containing his longbow near the saddle away from his knee with his left hand and his dark bay shook its mane. He grinned at it and directed it down the hill, increasing his speed to a fast trot, enjoying the late spring smell of cut grass. Anthony swung down from the saddle near one of the small clumps of trees on the parkland and patted his mount's nose appreciatively, then led it over to the nearest in the copse of trees and tethered it. He took his longbow out of its case and looped the quiver that had been in the case with it over his neck and shoulder, in a position so that it was accessible under his right arm. He then walked into the forest, scanning the terrain with interest. He could almost immediately see rabbit droppings, so he knelt and took a snare out of his game bag. He sprung it near the droppings, in between them and a bush nearby. He suddenly felt as though he was being watched – and although he was only twenty years old, he had been in enough dangerous situations to know not to ignore that feeling. He turned slowly to face the other direction but could see nothing out of the ordinary. He recalled the words of a knight he had trained under regarding an ambush. No one is stupid enough to stand in full view, he was fond of saying. They will be undercover – and never in a super predictable hiding spot. Mindful of this, and the fact that people rarely looked up, Anthony raised the angle of his gaze and searched the low-hanging tree branches. Again, he could see nothing suspicious.
Shrugging the thought away, Prince Anthony turned back to the snare. He stood up and looked around on the ground for signs of deer. Seeing more evidence of them, he went in the direction they seemed to lead. Several minutes later, his search bore fruit. He nodded in satisfaction as he came to a clearing with a spring coming from a rock outcrop at the opposite end of it. There were four deer in the clearing. Two of them he discounted immediately as potential targets due to the fact that they were a young doe with her fawn whose camouflage spots had just begun to fade. The other two seemed to be holding the attention of the others. They were both bucks, one of which was clearly older and more robust. The younger buck, it seemed, had challenged the older one, judging from their current discourse. They were sparring, darting in to lock their antlered heads and engaged in an all-out shoving match.
By chance, Prince Anthony was at the south end of the clearing and the slight breeze was from the northeast, blowing what scent there was from the deer to him. The breeze was just brisk enough that it masked the slight movements of the hunting prince. He used this to his advantage, setting his aim point just behind the shoulder of the younger one. He held the bow loosely in his hand and nocked an arrow as quietly as he could manage. He sighted, judging that the fifty-five-pound draw weight would make it so that this was a point-blank shot – twenty or twenty-five meters. He drew and released in a matter of seconds.
His aim was slightly off. He had been out of practice for some weeks, training in swordsmanship rather than archery because his father thought of the bow as a commoners' weapon, not fit for a prince. The broadhead of the arrow slammed into the young deer, some six centimeters to the right of his aiming point. As a result, the heart did not stop beating, but the power of the shot had sent the young animal staggering, tripping over itself and cracking its neck in the process. This, rather than the arrow wound, killed it immediately.
Anthony stepped away from his shooting position toward the clearing, now only containing the dead deer. The others had bounded away as soon as the arrow struck. Anthony knelt by the deer, holding his dagger in his left hand – his bow was still in his right. He made sure that the deer was dead and when he had done so he put the dagger back in its sheath. That was its purpose, and he was glad to see that he did not need to use it. He breathed an apology to it; he only hunted out of necessity when he needed practice, not for sadistic sport. He now took hold of the animal's front fetlocks and turned back the way he had come. When he reached the snare, he was pleased to see a large rabbit in it. He released his hold on the deer carcass to put the rabbit into his game bag, then made his way out of the forest to give the meat to Castle Araluen's chef.