He opened the door to the inn hoping he might find what he was looking for. The bodies had been carried outside and the floors scrubbed. The small room didn’t smell good, but it did smell better. A large wooden chair had been brought in and set up near the fireplace, which still had the embers of the fire he’d started in it. The chair was covered with a thick quilt, and there were pillows arranged for his comfort.
“Wine,” he said harshly to the young woman, who seemed to be the only one of the women who didn’t cower at his every word. The others were all acting busier than they really were and looking for any excuse they could find to go into the kitchens. The inn only had a few small rooms in back. The innkeeper and his family occupied some of them. The others were for the occasional guest, but Offendorl knew that he could sleep just as well in the chair that had been prepared for him.
The young woman brought wine and poured it into a pewter cup. Offendorl frowned, but didn’t complain. He would send the women for better tableware tomorrow, he determined. For now, the plain metal cup would do. The wine wasn’t good, but it was strong enough that Offendorl felt his strength returning with each sip.
“Heat water for a bath,” he instructed the woman. “And send for my meal.” To another of the women he barked more orders. “I want pallets against the wall for all of you,” Offendorl told her. “You’ll sleep here in case I need anything in the night.”
The woman nodded and hurried away, while another brought out a full rack of lamb, with boiled potatoes and summer greens smothered in rich gravy. Another woman brought bread and cheese, while a third arrived with fruit.
“This will suffice,” Offendorl said. “Clean the kitchens and prepare for tomorrow.”
The women left without a word. He could hear them moving about in the kitchens but he couldn’t hear them talking, which he was grateful for. He missed the silence of the Torr. He hated to be disturbed by idle chatter, which was one of the reasons he had the tongues removed from his servants. Also, it kept them from repeating anything they might hear in his presence. It was a prudent practice, although he knew that many people found it repugnant. They could die with their high morals, he thought, while he lived through the centuries with the power to do as he pleased.
Chapter 19
Prince Wilam was exactly where he’d always dreamed of being-at the head of an army. As a young boy he’d learned sword craft from the finest swordsmen in Yelsia. He had been tutored in tactics by his father’s generals and given squads to lead, then centuries, and finally his own legion. He’d fought in some minor skirmishes with Shirtac raiders, but he’d never led an army to war. It had always been his dream, since he was little and could read the histories of the great conflicts of the Five Kingdoms. His father had sent him to Osla as the ambassador to the high court of the Five Kingdoms to learn how to deal with political maneuvering. Now he was back in Osla, not as a king or at the court, which had been razed by the troops he now led. Instead, he was the commander of Gwendolyn’s army, and although his mind was still entranced by the witch, he was very aware of how fortunate he was.
The army he led was not as grand as the one he’d dreamed of as a boy. There were only two centuries of cavalry, and the rest were foot soldiers, but they were anxious for a fight. It seemed that Gwendolyn’s spell brought most men to the precipice of violence. The prince himself had killed on other occasions, including King Oveer and two his closest generals. He doubted that the troops he now led would even care that their sovereign ruler was dead-they would probably be glad there was one less person to vie for Gwendolyn’s affection.
Prince Wilam had spent days leading the army along the northern road that led from the Grand City up into Falxis. The terrain was flat for the most part, with short, stunted looking trees. He could see for miles in every direction and had scouts out looking for any signs of the invading army. He had hoped to find a hilltop to direct the fighting from, but hills of any kind seemed few and far between, as did water and fresh supplies. Prince Wilam had finally decided his best bet was to camp his men next to a good supply of water and food.
He put his engineers to work building him a tower. The army tore down barns and even a few homes to salvage enough wood for the project. It was a simple wooden structure, with a staircase that wrapped around the heavy timber beams. It was sturdy and three times the height of a man. Prince Wilam positioned the best archers he had to the tower with him. He had four legions of troops and four generals, three of them newly promoted. The plain where Wilam expected the battle to take place was a wide, grassy field that he hoped would keep the dust to a minimum. His greatest fear was that he would lose sight of the battle by the dust of thousands of feet tramping hard upon the dry ground.
“Sir,” came a shout from one of the lookouts posted on the tower. “A scout is returning.”
“Good,” Wilam said, rising from the canvas camp chair where he’d been sitting and climbing quickly down to meet the scout personally.
There was a lot activity around the base of the tower. The army was encamped almost half a mile to the rear of the battle plain, but Wilam kept his troops ready for action. They arrived at the battle site each morning at dawn, drilling through the day so that they would be ready to follow his orders in battle. The prince envisioned a battle where he had strict control of his troops movements and formations. The chain of command was well prepared and he had devised three separate battle plans, as well as a system of flag signals so that he could order the different units around the field of battle.
His generals were nearby, each coming to attention when he drew near.
“A scout is returning,” he told them. “Hopefully we’ll have news of the invaders.”
The generals nodded. They were men accustomed to taking orders, and while they longed to return to Gwendolyn-as each man in her army did-they could see that Prince Wilam was competent, unlike King Oveer. Following Prince Wilam’s orders was not always easy, but the orders always made sense and the prince himself was not afraid of getting his hands dirty. He worked tirelessly, from demonstrating the proper sword technique to a lowly foot soldier to ensuring that there was food and provisions ready. His tent was illuminated late into the night, where the generals found him planning and testing every conceivable outcome to the battle. He had earned their respect quickly, even if they still saw him as a rival for the witch’s affection.
The rider came galloping into the camp and only slowed once he neared the tower. Then he flung himself off his horse and came to a rigid salute.
“Report,” Wilam barked.
“Sir, there are enemy troops half a day from here.”
“How many?” Wilam asked.
“I couldn’t tell exactly,” the scout said. “There was a lot of dust and no real vantage point, but if I had to guess I’d say a force equal to our own.”
“I don’t want guesses,” Wilam shouted. “I want facts. I want numbers of troops, of cavalry. I want to know if they have siege engines or trebuchets. I want to know how they are being supplied and if they are tired. I want to know everything.”
“Yes, sir,” said the scout sheepishly.
“Get a new mount, I’ll send for the rest of our scouts,” Wilam said. “You said they were traveling together, correct? Just one main body?”