R. Salvatore - The Dame

The moment she entered her private chambers, where Alandrais was waiting, she knew something was wrong.

The man hadn’t dressed down into his nightshirt but was still wearing his heavy brown robes and hadn’t untied his uncomfortable sandals. He half stood, half sat on the edge of Gwydre’s desk, his strong arms crossed over his chest, his expression stern.

Thinking him distracted by something extraneous (or hoping that to be the case), Dame Gwydre walked over and reached up to stroke his face.

He was looking right at her when he stiffened away from her touch.

“What is it?” she asked, afraid she knew.

“Father De Guilbe is a powerful man in the Order of Abelle,” Alandrais replied.

“So is Father Premujon.”

“Who supports Father De Guilbe. And Father De Guilbe has the ear of Father Artolivan.”

Dame Gwydre stepped back from the man. “I have not spoken to Father Premujon about the new arrivals from Alpinador, nor does it matter much concerning my own words-”

“You should not diminish him or contradict him, particularly on matters relating to the order,” Alandrais scolded. “As with the man, Cormack, it is not your concern.”

Gwydre nodded her head as she mulled over those words for a few heartbeats. “Cormack, who helped defeat Ancient Badden and thus may have saved my people?” she asked. “That man, Cormack? That hero, Cormack, is not the concern of Dame Gwydre, who rules Vanguard?”

“His disposition in the church is a matter for the Order of Abelle.”

“When have I said that it is not? My argument with De Guilbe stemmed from his remarks to my man, the Highwayman.”

“Your threat to him, you mean.”

“Aland, what is this about?” Gwydre asked, coming forward in a conciliatory manner, again reaching to stroke his bearded face.

This time, he stood straight and turned his back on her.

“Alandrais?”

“Dame Gwydre…” he started, and then he took a deep breath and turned around to face her directly. “Gwyd,” he restated, using his pet name for her. “I am a brother of Abelle. I will always be such-my first and foremost love is forever my church and my prophet.”

“I have never asked you for more than that,” Gwydre interrupted.

“Haven’t you? When you threaten the very chapels of my order, as you did with Father De Guilbe, you place me in an uncomfortable-”

“And I am the Dame of Vanguard!” Gwydre cut him off. “The people of this land depend upon me for their welfare, as they depended upon my husband before me and my father before him. I will always be as such, and first and foremost in my heart is my responsibility to the people of Vanguard. I have never asked you to betray your order, to place me before Abelle in your heart, and yet you are doing just that to me, right here and right now.”

“Your words to Father De Guilbe-”

“Were not an idle threat, I assure you,” Dame Gwydre snapped.

Brother Alandrais stared at her hard, but there was no blink coming from the woman, no backing down in the least.

“You should leave,” she said after many moments of unsettling silence had passed.

Brother Alandrais started to reply but stopped short, looked to the side for a moment, then nodded and walked past Gwydre, out of the room.

The Dame of Vanguard winced when that door slammed closed. She took a deep breath, wiped away whatever tears were daring to form in her eyes, and walked across the room to her private stock and poured herself a large glass of boggle, a rare and precious wine, rumored to be made by woodland elves or some other such faerie folk.

It had been a long day.

Indeed.

Laird Ethelbert couldn’t hide the smile widening on his face as the scouts offered their reports. So it was true: His assassins had killed Delaval.

Yeslnik had fled to Delaval City, taking much of his entourage with him, including his elite, well-armed, and bronze-armored warriors who had been so devastating to Ethelbert on the battlefield of late. Many of the support groups surrounding Pryd Holding were apparently peeling away as well, falling back to guard Delaval City or falling off simply out of confusion.

Ethelbert had beheaded the beast, and the beast’s body was flailing without purpose or direction.

“Yeslnik will become Laird of Delaval Holding,” he whispered, nodding. He looked up as he finished to see all his scouts and generals and advisors staring at him, hanging on his every word. “This boy, Yeslnik, who has no understanding of warfare and who has never bloodied his blade on a living opponent.”

His emphasis on the word “living” brought a derisive laugh, for it was rumored that the Prince of Delaval had oftentimes wiped his sword on the bodies of fallen enemies to make it look as if he had gallantly struck many mortal blows. The joke among Ethelbert’s men and even among the fighting warriors of Delaval’s ranks was that Yeslnik must have extraordinarily long arms to reach the battle from his favored position, far in the rear.

“We have accomplished all that we hoped,” Kirren Howen remarked, bowing in admiration for his laird’s cleverness.

Ethelbert nodded but then addressed another of the scouts who had not yet offered his report. “What news from the north? Has Milwellis pivoted?”

“No, my laird,” the man replied, stammering nervously. “I mean, yes, my laird, but not toward us. He went north to Chapel Abelle and the coast. From there, he marched east but then back to the west as if unsure.”

“And now?”

“Back east of Chapel Abelle, along the north reaches of Felidan but still west of the Mantis Arm,” the scout replied. “He has not sought engagement since his victory at Pollcree.”

“Because he thinks his legacy safe,” said the smiling Ethelbert. “And thinks the war nears its end. He paused because he expected the battle to commence here, an obvious rout for Delaval. And while I was in retreat to the southeast, Milwellis could move east with ease, against holdings unsure of their allegiance to my, obvious losing, cause.”

“Obvious, my Laird Ethelbert,” said Kirren Howen, and several others snickered. “But the battle will not commence here, as Milwellis anticipated. And our withdrawal will not be retreat.”

Ethelbert was nodding, but his expression did not show agreement. “Delaval’s forces slide away. They are confused and demoralized.”

Kirren Howen looked at the man slyly.

“Perhaps the battle should commence here, and now,” Ethelbert said, grinning at his old general. “We had thought to make the attempt and withdraw posthaste, but since we have been more successful than we ever deemed possible, is it possible that Pryd Holding is within our grasp?”

“They maintain a sizable garrison, but they are in confusion,” said Myrick the Bold.

“Do we dare?” asked Kirren Howen.

“Do we dare not to seize the opportunity?” Ethelbert replied. “What might be the gain, I wonder?”

“Pryd Holding,” said Myrick the Bold.

“And Prince Yeslnik suing for peace on our terms,” added Kirren Howen.

“And Bannagran,” said Ethelbert, nodding, his eyes gleaming, for he knew that one well and suddenly understood the potential prize here. “Can we do it?” he asked his most trusted soldier.

Kirren Howen didn’t answer. He looked around questioningly at the scouts. “I can know by this very evening,” he finally assured Ethelbert.

“Calculate then,” Ethelbert bade him. “We must act quickly if we are to act at all. Before Yeslnik’s advisors-Laird Delaval’s old competent warriors-mitigate their confusion and protect their flanks.”

Ethelbert grinned widely at Kirren Howen as he finished. “I believe we can do this. We have struck a mortal blow, but only if we press the wound before it is tended.”