Elvarin frowned in the darkness. Duar’s own grandfather had elevated the Dheolurs to nobility, and they’d spent the next three generations plotting and planning and scheming. They gained the right to put their stockaded settlement in the heart of the forest, and then did everything in their power to undermine the crown. When Suzail was seized, House Dheolur swore fealty to Magrath in an instant.
There was a noise in the distance, no more than the snapping of a twig. Everyone stiffened at the sound but Amedahast. The wizard stood up silently and looked in the direction of the noise. She had elven blood in her veins, but of late, Elvarin was sure it was ice water. Rumor had it that some Cormyrean noble had broken her heart at a young age. Elvarin just hoped for her sake that said noble was not a Crownsilver, Amedahast looked like a woman who held grudges.
Everyone held his breath for a moment as something moved at the opposite edge of the glade. A lone man appeared, moving cautiously. He was dressed in a cotton blouse and patched woolen pants, and his unkempt gray hair jutted in all directions from beneath a shapeless cap. He held an unlit lantern in his hand. He was clearly visible in the moonlight, as were they.
The old farmer waved the unlit lantern slowly.
Amedahast duplicated the motion in return, and the farmer limped forward, smiling.
Duar arose from where he’d been sitting. Upon seeing the king’s face, the old farmer threw himself to his knees in respect. The king walked up to him and knelt as well, taking the old man by the shoulder and lifting him to his feet. Crownsilver had seen this many times now. Duar had become very good at it, and it sealed the loyalty of the peasants he embraced so. The touch of a king still held great power.
The two engaged in a conversation of hushed whispers. Amedahast and Crownsilver reached them at the same moment.
“Magrath is there,” said Duar, smiling.
“So our information was correct,” said Amedahast solemnly.
“Aye,” said the farmer. “He’s a hulking beast, Sire, with horns long as my arms. He’s got his men up there, as well. They’re in the main feast hall, and will be for the next several hours. There are a lot of them.”
“So the victory will be that much sweeter,” said Duar.
“You knew?” said Elvarin. “You knew Magrath would be here?”
“We suspected,” said Amedahast. “It was one reason we chose Dheolur in the first place. We’ll get High Horn’s troops if we win a town, but we can throw all the pirates into disarray if we kill or capture their leader.”
And what of the disarray if we lose you? Thought Crownsilver. Instead, she said, “Is this wise, Your Majesty? We are but twenty, and it’s a full-moon night. We’ll be spotted as soon as we break cover.”
“Spotted by drunken guards and watchmen more interested in what is going on within the settlement than without. Do you remember where the feast hall in Dheolur is?”
“Aye,” said Crownsilver stonily. “I also remember the twenty-foot wall around the hold. What are we to do about that? Does Amedahast here have a spell that will allow us all to pass through walls?”
The wizard shot Crownsilver a look that froze her blood, but Elvarin did not care. If she was going to die following her king, it would not be because they had forgotten so simple a thing as the main gate.
“The plan is already well in hand,” said Duar quietly. “Trust me and follow me, as you have followed me thus far.”
With that, the farmer set off, followed by Amedahast, Duar, Crownsilver, and the others. They left their horses behind. Elvarin knew that if they needed mounts this night, it would be because their cause was already lost.
Dheolur was surrounded with a stout stockade, rising protectively around the warehouses and homes of House Dheolur. The traitor house. Elvarin remembered what she could not yet see in the darkness.
The place needed the protection of its wall, for even in the best of times, goblins and other monsters came wandering out of the King’s Forest. Inside now would be Lord Dheolur, his loathsome and reptilian sister Pella, and Lady Threena, a Cormaeril who’d married into the household. Of the lot, Threena was the only one worth more than a bucket of warm suet. Elvarin hoped she would survive this night. But then, she hoped all of the folk with her, advancing cautiously through the forest, would survive this night.
The feast hall would also be the main warehouse, emptied for the revel. It stood to the right-hand side of the stockade, facing Dheolur Manor on the left, a large and ugly sprawl of pretentious turrets and wings built on the ruins of a temple that once stood there. And whose temple had that been? Elvarin thought for a moment. Moander, Threena Cormaeril had told her. Some minor and malicious deity of rot and decay.
Such a god would have a good home here. Dheolur was surrounded by low, peaty bogs and patches of marsh. This, more than any stockade wall, served it as protection. The farmer knew the way, and they kept to a series of forested rills, the ferns of the undergrowth slapping against their armored legs and thighs. All through their journey, Elvarin was concerned they’d be spotted, but if anyone noticed their passing, no alarm was raised.
They reached the clearing that surrounded Dheolur. The rebellious nobles had ordered the forest cut back a hundred yards in all directions but had not maintained their vigilance since that burst of good sense. Already ferns and spindly saplings were growing in the blasted land. Still, one had a clear view of the stockade, the gate-house, and a crudely built watchtower. Despite the full moon, Elvarin could not determine if the dark wooden structure was occupied.
What now? Was Amedahast going to make herself invisible, fly over the walls, and open the gates for them? Elvarin could not believe the king would risk his last surviving mage.
Duar said something to the wizard, and the farmer drew close with his lantern. Amedahast muttered something short and sharp, and a flame appeared at her fingertip. The farmer held the lantern steady, its shutters closed. The mage lifted the glass globe and lit the wick.
The farmer faced the settlement and opened the shutters of the lantern, then closed them again immediately. Then a second time, this time a little longer, then closed again. Short-long, short-long.
There was a pause, during which all in the royal party held their breath. Then there was a response from the guard tower itself. Short-long, short-long.
Duar gave the signal to advance. The entire party, blades drawn, moved forward into the clearing.
The farmer remained, and Duar turned to him. Elvarin passed near as the two talked.
“You have the thanks of the rightful king. What is your name, good man?”
“Dhedluk, Sire,” said the farmer, and he spelled it.
King Duar nodded and said, “When the victory is ours, you will be remembered.” He laid a hand on the man’s forearm, and the startled farmer clasped arms with his king, as equals. When Duar released his grip, the man dropped immediately to his knees. The king clapped him on the shoulder and hauled him up again. And with that, he and Elvarin joined the others.
Elvarin’s breathing was tight and ragged as they crossed the blasted field by moonlight. Duar had a spy within, probably another farmer like Dhedluk. Or perhaps a guard who’d volunteered for watch duty while the others were occupied.
Or perhaps it was all a trap, and they’d arrive at the stockade with no open gate and no ladder or rope to gain entrance. Then archers would appear over the sharp rim of the palisade and cut them down like a farmer scything barley.