The Beacon: Thorne (2)
Episode 30: "The Army Moves"
Although he sat on his horse placidly, King Lorens III Ankara fumed under his armor. Delay! Delay! Delay! The word repeated incessantly in his mind and had been for days.
He had intended to lead the Margonni army out of Palisade the morning after Adon and his company left the capital. But here he sat in the palace yard two days later, still waiting for the various components of the army to assemble in the open grassland east of the North Gate. Shading his eyes as he looked to the top of the nearest tower, he spotted Captain Baladan, the Palace Guard’s commander. Baladan stood beside a sergeant peering through a glass mounted on the wall, which was pointed toward the distant assembly ground. Noticing the king’s glance, the captain shook his head, something he had done far too often already this morning.
“What in the Shepherd’s name is it this time?” Lorens growled, exasperated. He really did not expect an answer. It could have been a shortage of wagons or even something as simple as an axle or wheel breaking somewhere along the line. It was likely some form of miscommunication. A company had perhaps gone some place they should not have, or maybe a commander had not received any orders, and his soldiers were casting dice in camp to while away the time. Officers and soldiers know better than anyone in the kingdom how to botch a simple plan! he thought.
He glanced skyward and noted the sun’s progress. The wait he, his staff officers, and a half-company of soldiers had endured had already lasted more than an hour. Palace servants with water buckets and dippers had walked down the line once, refreshing the soldiers as they slowly baked in the morning sun.
Several minutes later, Lorens took one more look at Captain Baladan and received another shake of the head. “Confound it!” he muttered, more loudly than he intended. Then he turned in his saddle and shouted, “I’ve waited long enough! Move out!”
Giving his horse, a tall, black stallion named Ranger, a gentle tap with his heels, he rode through the palace gate at a stately walk. His guards, pennants flying in the gentle breeze, hurried to overtake and surround him. The plan was for the king to ride in parade through the city to the North Gate, receiving the cheers and admiration of the city’s citizens. Once he rode through to the Angeva Road, the three army divisions under Marshals Mortimor, Vash, and Telsiora would fall in line behind the van. As for their destination, the war council had left it to the king’s discretion once they were on the road, intending to encamp well beyond Bridgeton.
In his frustration, Lorens thought, I’ve a mind to march them straight through the night! But he would not do so. He could not let his annoyance trigger a tactical mistake of such magnitude. They would march past Bridgeton, he decided, and consider the matter then, once he received word on how the soldiers were faring on the march. He also had to remember that a line as long as what followed him would take additional hours to shuffle into camp and set up their tents. On second thought, reaching Bridgeton will make a good first day.
Members of the city watch controlled the crowds lining the King’s Road. Along the way, men waved their hats, ladies and children threw flowers, and many voices rang out, calling, “The Shepherd guard you, good King Lorens!” “Love live the king!” “Lorens! Lorens! Lorens!” “Return in victory!” and “Glory to Margonne!”
Lorens was gratified to see many Leitani in the crowd, cheering just as loud as the Margonni standing at their shoulders. Passing through the Third Level, he distinctly heard one young Leitan standing on a stone wall, shouting, “The demon-worshipers don’t speak for us! Long live the king!” Lorens almost stopped the parade to shake the man’s hand, but waved and smiled at him instead as he rode past.
On the Fourth Level, just before the line of horsemen descended into the vast square behind the North Gate, a group of about a half-dozen Leitani boys wearing red headbands threw rocks toward the king. None struck him, though one passed over his head. Indignant, the onlookers turned on the rock-throwers and may have torn them limb from limb had not Lorens intervened and ordered the City Watch to take the youths into custody. The Watch would administer severe punishment for such an infraction. But, he considered, the boys will be better off in jail than dead at the hands of the mob. After this, the crowd cheered him even louder.
The king and his company swept into the square, where thousands of shouting citizens lined a narrow path to the gate. When the king was halfway to it, thousands of voices joined in singing “The Kingdom of Margonne Is Our Home,” the kingdom’s unofficial anthem.
Founded by folk from many lands,
Bringing their strength, their skills, their care,
Building the kingdom with their hands,
Grand Margonne stands without compare!
The Kingdom of Margonne is my home.
Margonne’s noble kingdom is our home.
It so stirred Lorens’ heart that he stopped his men and dismounted. Crossing to the central fountain a few yards away, he leaped onto its stone wall and raised his hand to quiet the crowd.
“Good people of Palisade!” he shouted into the relative silence. His booming voice reached every ear in the square. “We are gratified by your patriotism and goodwill! It grieves me that we are forced to engage in war against our own. Yet, what recourse do we have? They have sent dozens of maddening emanations across our land and killed many innocents, including my dear son, Carlonne!”
When he spoke the late crown prince’s name, the crowd erupted with cries of deep indignation against the rebels and their wicked acts. A chant broke out near the king, and soon, thousands of voices were shouting, “Carlonne! Carlonne!” Lorens bowed his head, his face in his hands, hiding tears he could not hold back.
A minute later, and with great effort, he regained his composure. Once again, he held up a hand to still the crowd. “I promise you, loyal Margonni and Leitani alike, I will wage relentless war against the evil that has stained our land! I will stake my crown and my life in this venture! My pledge is this: I will not allow this great nation to fall to the ancient, horrid practices that Margonne swept away two centuries ago! If this conflict must be decided on the field of battle, so be it! With honor and virtue, we will prevail! Are you with me?”
At these words, the crowd responded with a thunderous shout of acclaim. Lorens smiled and waved in every direction before mounting Ranger. Settled, he signaled the column to move forward.
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A half-mile beyond the gate, his marshals waited nervously for the king, their horses sidestepping under the tension among them. Just out of earshot, a large contingent of aides and guards spoke among themselves. Knowing their recent tardiness frustrated Lorens, the marshals were not eager to face him. At least once a minute, one of the three peered down the road for any sign of his approach. Hearing the distant acclaim from the crowd in the square, they knew he would be along shortly.
A few minutes later, seeing a flash of light out of the corner of his eye, Marshal Telsiora glanced at the sky. A large black bird circled overhead, a dark blot against the brilliant blue of the heavens. At first, he thought it was a vulture scouring the countryside for carrion, but after seeing it from different angles, he determined it was a raven, looking for a place to perch. The croak it made verified his identification.
The bird turned and dove toward them, flaring up to land on a thick branch on the river side of the road. It croaked and bobbed its head, settling its feathers. Occasionally, the raven turned its head to look down the road, almost in conscious imitation of the marshals. It made no move to fly away even when Marshal Vash shouted and waved his arms to shoo it off.
“Lorens!”
Vash’s eyes flew wide. “Did that crow just speak the king’s name?”
Telsiora nodded. “It’s a raven, and yes, it spoke the king’s name,” he said in his calm, unhurried manner.
“I did not know such birds could speak,” Vash said, eyeing the bird with a creased brow.
“It is rare, I believe,” Telsiora answered, smiling slightly, “but they can be taught to repeat words. However, I’ve never heard anyone teaching a raven to say the king’s name.”
“Lorens!” the raven croaked. It rose on its perch and ruffled its feathers.
“There it goes again!” Vash said, now looking at the bird with distrust. “What do you think all that means?”
Marshal Mortimor grunted. “It means the king is coming. Look! It noticed the king before we did.”
Bobbing on the branch, the raven made a noise that sounded like laughter.
King Lorens rode up to them at a quick trot, his aides in his train. “Marshals,” he said with a nod. He gazed at them sternly, studying them, then pursed his lips and shook his head. Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I don’t know what your excuses are for not being ready to move. I do not want to hear them. Frankly, I don’t care. Those forces able to move out now will move out. Immediately. Those who are not ready will march in our dust until they rejoin us. Fall in line by division, marshals. We will camp beyond Bridgeton.”
“Yes, lord,” the three marshals said in unison, relieved the king would not berate them more than this.
As they were about to turn away, they heard the raven speak again: “King Lorens!”
Bewildered, the king looked about for the speaker. When the raven said his name a second time, he quickly spotted the bird perched on the branch. He turned Ranger toward the raven, which was now bowing toward him. “Gamila?” he asked tentatively.
The raven bobbed its head and flapped its wings in affirmation. “Message, King Lorens!” it said clearly.
Lifting his left forearm, the king said, “Come!” and the raven glided over to him, landing on the wide cuff of his riding glove. Immediately noticing a metal cylinder tied to the raven’s leg, the king quickly removed it and sent the bird back to its branch. He removed the small cork stoppering the cylinder and drew out a narrow, rolled strip of paper written on both sides in a small but neat hand. He rapidly read both sides, then again.
“It’s from Adon Santinetta,” he said to the marshals, who looked on with undisguised curiosity. “Another emanation wreaked havoc at the garrison in Blayne, and about half are dead or seriously wounded from a melee inside the fort. The garrison needs to be reinforced immediately. He also says that the rebel Leitani are already inside Blayne’s walls, and a force of ten thousand is rumored to arrive there today out of the hills. Gentlemen, we have our work cut out for us. No excuses! We must make haste!”
The king turned to the raven still perched on the branch. “Gamila, my thanks,” he said. “Your gift is a wonder. Give my uncle my thanks for the information. We are on our way.”
The raven bobbed and croaked a final time before lifting off the branch and flying swiftly away to the north.
A note:
At the time, each division of the Margonni army consisted of about two thousand men. Lorens III, then, led about six thousand troops north toward Blayne. However, his army was the kingdom’s standing army, well-trained, professional troops, as opposed to the rebel army, which had only a relative handful of trained warriors. The vast majority of the Leitani soldiers were disaffected hotheads and toughs off the streets of Palisade, Wesfair, Kingsport, and other cities and towns. In addition, their weapons and armor were far inferior to those of Margonni soldiers. Thus, King Lorens confidently rode to meet the foe, believing his outnumbered army more than sufficient to quash the rebellion.
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Gamila is Margonne's secret weapon.