Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Prologue

"Your Majesty."

Audemar nearly strode on before he realized that the salutation was meant for him, not his father. "Yes?" he asked.

"The courier has arrived in the War Tent."

My brothers can wait. Audemar made an abrupt turn to his right, as did his Right Captain and guards. They sloshed through a narrow path that took them directly to the center of the camp. Mud as thick as paste clung to their boots, hampering their speed as they came upon a red three-peaked pavilion. From within, the hard voices of dozens slammed against one another, each baron inside speaking over the other. Warnings and rebukes turned to cries and shouts. The tumult spilled forth to meet Audemar as a guard opened the tent flap for him.

With his entrance, the crowd hushed. Audemar squinted as his sight adjusted to the dimness of the pavilion, lit by the roaring blazes of half a dozen braziers.

"Your Majesty," said the huddled voices of Marlish barons, nearly all at once, though a few trailed the initial volley. The mass bowed as every nobleman made a fist that they then placed over their hearts.

Audemar returned the gesture. "Mar be good." He scanned the crowd. Every Marlish nobleman who had accompanied him to the continent seemed to be present. His newly-appointed treasurer, Baron Thybalt, of Har-Kin Giscard. Baron Gale of Har-Kin Mallory, his family's most ardent supporters. Then there were the lords of Har-Kin Boivin, along with those of Hamage, Nevishold, Droigg, and many others.

Too many. Such numbers never coalesced so quickly and stilled so swiftly due to good news.

"Now, what news have we received?" he asked nonetheless.

The barons near the front exchanged anxious glances while those behind turned to the rear. In the back, the crowd parted to make way for a lone courier, a slender Marlishman with a mop of sandy hair and a freckled face. No more than sixteen, the lad stepped forward, albeit hesitantly as every baron along with the King watched him approach.

"Your Grace," the courier said nervously.

"Your Majesty," Audemar's Right Captain corrected him. The knight fell in line beside the King, glaring at the young man until he lowered his gaze.

Audemar raised his hand. "Sir Lijart, please. Dismiss with the formalities." The King nodded to the courier. "Your news?"

"Sire, the Tarshade Forest . . . the army there . . . the one you sent. It fell."

Murmurs and chatter erupted. Baron Rayvenn of Har-Kin Warci, as portly as he was raucous, shouted over the clamor. "You told us that already. What do you mean 'fell'? Details. Give us the details."

The courier sighed, clearly distraught at the concept of speaking about the incident. "They, whoever they were, surrounded us last night. From nowhere they came. Then everywhere. They overwhelmed the sentries on duty before swarming through the camp. They lit the tents on fire. We retreated to a set of hillocks on the other side of the stream. That's when my lord, Baron Marvynn, sent me here to give word . . ."

He paused to inhale, gripping his side as he did so. Only then, his sight having adjusted to the low light, did the King note the ash and grime on the lad's face along with his disheveled clothing. He fought to come here. "Grab a seat for him," Audemar commanded. At once, an attendant appeared with a wooden stool for the courier, who gladly sat. Another servant, anticipating the King's next request, produced a cup of wine for the man, who drank thirstily.