David Farland - The Sum of All Men

From the sounds of coughing as she passed through this crowd, it looked as if plagues would soon sweep the camp.

Iome estimated that between refugees, the inhabitants of Castle Groverman, and those who had come for the fair, some thirty thousand people had gathered. A vast throng, not easily protected.

And Groverman's walls, for some reason, were not as thick with knights as Iome would have expected. So Groverman must be exerting all his influence to care for his people.

All this Iome saw as she rode past corrals filled with red cattle, through the broad streets. Everyone stared at Gaborn as he entered the city. Groverman was not used to entertaining soldiers who wore the livery of the green knight. The trio of Days who rode behind signaled that this was an important procession, regardless of how ragged Iome and her father looked.

At the castle gate, four guards stopped them. “You have another message for milord?” one guard asked Gaborn, ignoring Iome and her father.

“Yes,” Gaborn said softly, “please tell His Lordship that Prince Gaborn Val Orden begs his audience, and that he has come in company with King Jas Laren Sylvarresta, and the Princess Iome.”

The guards gaped at the news, stood staring at Iome's mud-stained robes. King Sylvarresta did not look kingly, not with his endowments stripped. In fact, Iome imagined she and her father were the saddest-looking pair on the road.

So Iome tried to sit all the more proudly, high in the saddle. It cost her dearly, for she could ill bear the stares of the guards.

Behold the horror of your princess, a sad voice whispered in her mind. She desired to cringe and hide her face, as some Dedicates did after giving glamour. Yet Iome steeled herself for the guards' inspection, still fighting the power of the rune Raj Ahten's men had branded into her flesh.

The guards studied the three Days who rode, as if to verify his claim. Two men bumped into each other in their rush to fetch Duke Groverman.

The Duke hurried into the broad courtyard of his estate, his richly embroidered robes flapping in the wind. Azurite and pearls were bound into the leather trim of his ocher cloak. His Days hurried behind.

“Here now! What's this? What's going on?” Groverman cried, pulling his cloak tighter about his neck. The morning was growing cold; gray clouds raced in from the south.

He stopped a dozen yards off, gawking back and forth between Gaborn, Iome, and the King.

“Good morning, sir,” Iome said softly, without dismounting, proffering her hand so that he could kiss her ring. “Though it has been but four months since last you visited Castle Sylvarresta, I fear much about my appearance has changed.”

It was understatement, of course. As for her father, he looked but a shadow of his former self. Stripped of glamour, his face seemed a worn mockery of the handsome figure he had cut. Shorn of his brawn, he slumped wearily in his saddle. Without wit, Lord Sylvarresta gaped about stupidly, enamored of the cattle.

“Princess Iome?” Groverman asked, as if unconvinced.

“Yes.”

Groverman stepped forward, took her hand, and unashamedly sniffed it.

Groverman was an odd man. Some might have called him a Wolf Lord, for he'd taken endowments from dogs, but unlike men who took such endowments only to satisfy a rapacious hunger for power, Groverman had once argued with Iome's father long into the night, suggesting that it was more morally correct to take endowments from animals than from men. “Which is more benevolent, to garner fifty endowments of scent from a man, or to take one endowment of scent from a tracking dog?”

So Duke Groverman had several endowments from dogs, yet he was a kind leader, well-liked by his people.

He had a narrow face, and dark-blue, close-set eyes. He looked nothing like King Sylvarresta. No one who saw them together would have ventured that the Duke hailed from the same family.

Satisfied with her scent, the Duke kissed her ring. “Welcome, welcome to my home.” With a wave of his hand, Duke Groverman bid Iome dismount, come into the courtyard.

“We have urgent matters to discuss,” Gaborn said, as if to get to the point. He was in such a hurry to get back to his father, he did not even want to dismount.

“Assuredly,” Groverman said, still waving Iome toward his palace.

“We are in a hurry,” Iome said. Almost, she wanted to shout at Groverman that she had no time for formalities, that he needed to call his warriors, send them to battle.

Iome suspected Groverman would resist her will, would try to dissuade her or placate her with lesser offers of aid. She did not want to listen to his caviling and his dodges.

“We must speak immediately,” Gaborn said.

The Duke caught Gaborn's tone, glanced up with a hurt look. “Milady, does Prince Orden speak for you and the King?”

“Yes, he does,” Iome said. “He's my friend, and our ally.”

“What would you have of me?” Groverman asked. “You have only to name it.” His tone was so submissive, his manner so meek, that, almost, Iome thought he feigned it. Yet when she looked into the Duke's eyes, she saw only submission.

Iome came to the point, “Longmont will soon be under attack. King Orden is there, with Dreis and others. How dare you refuse him aid!”

Groverman opened his hands wide, as if stunned. “Refuse him aid? Refuse aid? What more can I do? I've sent the best knights I could, having them ride as soon as they were able—over two thousand men. I've sent word to Cowforth and Emmit and Donyeis and Jonnick—and they'll converge here before noon. As I wrote in my message, I can promise another five thousand men by nightfall!”

“But...” Iome said, “Orden told us you refused aid.”

“On my honor, he is mistaken! I never!” Groverman shouted. “If women were squires and beeves were mounted knights, I'd march within the hour with an army of a quarter million. But I never denied him aid!”

Then she wondered. There had been too many knights on Longmot's walls. She'd thought they'd come from Dreis, or that Orden had gathered them in his travels.

Gaborn touched Iome's elbow. “My father has played us for fools. I see it now. I should have recognized what I felt. My father has always said that even the wisest man's plots are only as good as his information. He's fooled us, just as he seeks to fool Raj Ahten. He knew we wouldn't leave Longmont, so long as we trusted in reinforcements. For our own protection, he schemed a way to get us out of danger.”

Iome's head spun. Orden had lied with such seeming sincerity, had made her so furious with Groverman, it took her a moment to reassess the situation.

By now, if her estimates were right, Raj Ahten's troops should be reaching Longmont. Even if she and Gaborn turned now, they'd never make it back inside Longmot's gates. And a hundred thousand men should join Raj Ahten this day.

If Groverman waited until tonight to ride, he'd ride too late. Yet Iome could not bear to sit here while her allies fought in Longmont. There had to be something she could do. Iome tensed in her saddle as a plan took shape.

“Duke Groverman,” she asked, “how many shields do you have, at this very moment?”

“Ten thousand fighting men,” Groverman said. “But they are only commoners. My finest knights are in Longmont.”

“Not men—shields. How many shields do you have?”

“I—maybe I could scrounge twelve thousand, if we raided the armories of nearby estates.”

“Do so,” Iome said, “and get all the lances and armor and mounts you can—and all the women and men and children above the age of nine who can ride—and all the cattle and horses from their corrals. We'll make every blanket from your refugees into a pennant, and they shall fly hoisted on rails from your corrals. Bring all the war horns you can find. And do so quickly. We must depart no later than two hours from now.