The Conqueror

Suddenly Griffyn straightened. A single shape appeared on the battlements, motionless. Another weary wind blew up, gathered from the forests behind. It lifted the fabric of the figure’s gown in a long, billowing sweep.

A woman.

She stood a moment longer, then took a step and stumbled on the ramparts. Righting herself, she disappeared over the inner side.

“She’s gone,” said Alex quietly.

Griffyn passed him a look in silence. Aye, gone. Down a set of steps or perhaps flung herself off the battlement walkway in a fit of despair. The thought did not amuse. He planned to see to her punishment himself.

He wasn’t certain if she’d seen him, but he hoped so. Hoped she had seen him and known the moment of despair. Hoped she felt as wrecked as he had when he’d learned his home was lost forever to his once-beloved foster-father, Ionnes de l’Ami, eighteen years ago. As wrecked as he’d been when he learned he’d been betrayed by the daughter, too.

He turned to Alex, refocusing with effort. “When did you get back?”

“Just. I rode a day’s ride south. The news of a royal army coming to cut off our rear guard was but a rumour.”

Griffyn turned back to the castle. “Good.”

They were quiet a few moments, then Alex said, “We should attack the west side. I know you plan otherwise, but—”

“No.”

“Pagan, the wall is weak, and will fall like chaff.”

“It’s my home,” he murmured. Alex fell silent.

They stood like this until pre-dawn greyed the edges of the horizon. The camp stirred. A cold meal, then the men took their positions. Griffyn mounted Noir as the first streak of pink scratched across the sky, ripping open the dark night still domed overhead.

A dawn breeze pushed free of the wood behind them and rustled the dry grasses at their feet. The sounds of the horsemen heading off were muted. Noir stamped his hoof and pulled on the reins.

Griffyn pulled his helm down over his face. “Let’s get this over with.”

Gwyn heard them before she saw them, even though she stood with her marshal and captain of the guard, Fulk, atop the easternmost tower, waiting for war to swoop down on them. The sound was like wind rushing through trees down a mountainside.

There was no hope in outlasting a siege, and so, after consulting Fulk and her heart, she’d agreed to send out a fighting force. Too few were holding on, too few cared to. If King Stephen lost this castle in the north, the world would be like leeches hung from his heart from here on out. His son, the prince, lay dying in her cellars. She had no choice. Everoot must fight.

The gates swung open and her knights and men-at-arms marched out, even as the invading force appeared atop the far rise. She squinted to see. They paused, and their leader cantered to the front of the vanguard. A huge, raw-boned black horse, billowing mane, prancing, high-stepping, arching its spirited neck.

Her eyes opened slowly. A raw-boned black charger?

The helmed figure in front of the hordes lifted his hand, then swept it down. His cavalry kicked into action, thundering down the hill, spewing clods of dirt and brown grass in their riotous wake.

Gwyn’s throat squeezed tight. The roar of hooves drowned out her hammering heart, and the sun glinting off their bright shields, pressed tears into her eyes. Helmed faces and armoured bodies charged down the hill, lances pointed and lowered for death—they were not people, they were weapons.

Then, without warning, they pulled up. The riders sat back and hauled on the reins. Their snorting chargers reared up on their powerful hind legs, and like that, forty rows of onrushing knights skidded to a furious, rock-throwing stop.

What trickery, this?

Her army, primarily on foot and arrayed in uneven lines not even half again as strong, drew to a halt as well. The two lines stood perfectly still, like statues. An unexpectedly cool breeze blew through the valley. Everyone fro

ze in the sudden, remarkable silence.

“He’s givin’ us a chance to surrender,” Fulk observed grimly, “afore the bloodshed begins.”

“Who is he?” she demanded, squinting at the sunlit valley. “Who dares—”

Her throat squeezed shut. God in Heaven.

Pagan.