“What do you truly think?” Gregane asked.
Nicholls shrugged and pointed at the map.
“It’ll be difficult for our cavalry to maneuver, depending on where we meet. And they might have ambushes planned, hence why they’ve chosen the area.”
“At least it’s far from any town,” Gregane said, still staring at the map as if he might bore a hole through and see into Arthur’s mind. The lord had sent a rider, alerting Gregane and his commanders that Arthur sought to meet on a field of battle, in the area known to the locals as the Green Gulch. Gregane had promised an answer the following day, and then sent out scouts to check the terrain. It would be at least a day or two before he heard back from them, and the knight found his patience wearing thin as the night waned.
“I’d have preferred it if we had chosen the location,” Nicholls admitted. “But assuming Arthur holds to his word, we couldn’t have hoped for better ground to fight. It’d take months to starve him out of his caves, if at all given how many damn hidden paths and vaults he’s dug into it.”
Gregane nodded. When he’d marched out, granted command by Lord Sebastian, he’d expected to be heading toward a lengthy siege. With his five thousand men, a tenth of them mounted cavalry, he’d figured Arthur would use his castle to make up for his vastly inferior numbers. Such a plan, while sure to be an eventual victory for Gregane, posed far greater danger than open combat. The plain folk were, without a doubt, supporting and aiding Arthur. The longer the brothers’ conflict lasted, the worse it’d get for Sebastian.
“If it comes down to the Green Gulch, a potential siege, or a fight at a river crossing, I’ll take the flat ground,” said Gregane.
Nicholls rolled up the map and stored it in a chest of Gregane’s things.
“What of the scouts?” he asked.
“Learn what we can from them, but unless they discover battlements and trenches already built, we’ll not break our word.”
“Will Arthur renege? This could be a ploy.”
Gregane shook his head.
“I’ve served the Hemman family since long before Arthos’s death. I know Arthur. He’s honorable, and will do what he thinks is right. He would never renege upon an agreed battle.”
“What of his rebellion against Sebastian? I assume he thinks it is right, too?”
Gregane sighed, and he yanked his sword free and gestured for Nicholls to leave.
“Careful with your thoughts,” he said. “That road leads to danger. We serve the lord of the North, and right now, that rightful lord is Sebastian Hemman. All else matters not.”
“Of course,” Nicholls said, saluting. When he was gone, Gregane scowled. His anger toward Nicholls was misplaced, and he knew it. The younger knight had only voiced a gnawing doubt that he himself had been trying to ignore. Arthur, the older brother, was the one who should have ruled, if not for forsaking his claim. Arthur, the one who ruled all aspects of his life with honor, and patience…
He slammed his fist atop the table, banishing such treasonous thoughts. Sebastian was lord. That was that. Gregane couldn’t toss a bag of coins to beggars, then demand it back the following year. It was foolish, and neither could Arthur try for similar. Such threats to the North’s stability needed to be ended, and quickly. His duty wasn’t to like it, only do it. Come battle, he would defeat Arthur, and bring him bound to the Yellow Castle for his lord to decree his fate.
A cold wind blew, and he shivered. The tent flap rustled, and he turned thinking it only the wind. Instead, a man in black robes stood before him, his pale face smiling and his eyes alive with fire. Gregane reached for his sword, but stopped when the man said a single word.
“Halt.”
Despite his struggle, Gregane could not move. It was as if a hundred invisible chains had latched to his body. He stared at the intruder, feeling anger and panic swelling in his chest. His heart pounded, the sound thunderous in his ears.
“I mean you no harm,” said the man in black. “And I stop you not out of fear or malice, but to prevent you from doing something you might regret. If you remain calm, I will release you.”
Unsure how to answer, Gregane stared at the man and did his best to show that he was under control. Apparently it worked, for the intruder waved his hand, and the chains were gone.
“Who are you?” he asked, crossing his arms to fight against the impulse to draw his blade.
“I am Velixar, voice of the Lion, prophet to our glorious god Karak. I come offering counsel, and my aid.”
“I have enough men whispering in my ears.”
“Yes, but I offer no whispers, and most important of all, my voice speaks truth.”
Gregane swallowed. Truth, he thought. He highly doubted it. Still, if this was a holy man of Karak, he had to tread carefully. Sebastian’s loyalty to their deity was well known throughout the North.
“Then tell me what you wish to say, and I will take it into consideration.”
“Consideration?” Velixar chuckled, though Gregane could not begin to guess the reason for his amusement. “When men with wisdom speak, you should listen, and obey, my dear knight. Not pretend. Not take it into consideration.”
Gregane found himself entranced by the prophet’s face. At first he’d thought he imagined it, but he realized the man’s features were slowly shifting, as if his face were a liquid in constant, miniscule motion. His blood ran cold as he wondered just what really lay behind that mask.
“As you say,” Gregane said, trying to play it safe. “Then speak, and I will listen.”
“Much better. I have seen many battles, Sir…?”
“Gregane.”
“Sir Gregane. I’ve seen many, and started more. I know the minds of men, the simple strategies they employ. Let me stay at your side, and I will help you crush Arthur’s rebellion. The North’s worship of Karak must not be disrupted in any way.”
Gregane thought of that priest standing beside him come the battle, and he knew any orders he gave would not be suggestions. Once more he felt another clawing at the prestige that was to be rightfully his. And staring into those red eyes, he knew within lurked a man who would laugh at the very notion of honorable combat.
“We go to meet Arthur’s men,” he said. “We have agreed to a place, and will arrive within a few day’s march. Would you accompany us, or wait for our arrival?”
It was a gamble, he knew, but he had a feeling such a man would not casually walk among the living. His very presence seemed counter to daylight.
“I will await you there,” the priest said, his smile growing. “Show me where.”
Gregane knelt before his chest, opened it, and pulled out his map. Carefully he unrolled it upon the lone table of his tent, placing weights on all four corners to keep it open. With every bit of his self control, he willed himself to believe with absolute certainty the lie he spoke.
“Here,” he said, pointing to a place labeled Deer Valley, several miles east of the Green Gulch.
“A valley?” Velixar asked.
“We will leave them nowhere to run, and our horsemen will run rampant through their lines.”
The prophet nodded in approval.
“My faithful and I will await you there, my good knight. Your cooperation will never be forgotten, I promise.”
The promise felt just as much threat, but Gregane kept his face composed, the rigid gaze of a commander. Velixar stepped out from the tent. Once he was gone, Gregane collapsed to his knees, tore off his armor, and called out for one of his servants to bring him a very, very full pitcher of wine.