Chapter 9

William walked slowly across the blood-soaked field, carefully stepping over the bodies of the dead and wounded. The fighting had ended hours ago, but the moans and cries of injured men still filled the air as Disciples moved among them, doing their best to treat gruesome wounds. The real Disciples who arrived shortly after Baron Pembroke, the ones who’d been traveling with the Sidorian army, not the fake Disciples brought by the Lynesians.

Eskild walked silently at William’s side, his face an impassive mask. For William, it was all still painfully fresh: the ambush, and his failure in detecting it. He had led good men into battle and paid the price in lives lost or ruined bodies. The only reason any of them had been there, and allowed the Lynesians to get that close, was because of decisions he’d made. The weight of that responsibility felt crushingly heavy on his shoulders.

They came upon a wounded soldier lying on his back, clutching at a deep stab wound in his belly as he whimpered in agony. The man’s eyes were glassy with pain and fear—he knew the wound was mortal. One look and William could see the guts spilling from the wide gash were already going black.

“We need a healer over here!” William called, but he knew it was likely too late to save the man. He crouched down beside him, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Be still, friend. Help is coming.”

“Am I dying?” the man, not much older than William, asked in a whisper.

William glanced helplessly at Eskild, unsure of what to say. Of how to tell a man he’s about to die. Eskild gave a subtle shake of his head, telling William to go on.

“I fear so,” William said gently. “But we will stay with you until the end.”

The young soldier closed his eyes, tears leaking from the corners. His breath came in short, pained gasps for several long minutes until, with a final ragged exhalation, he lay still.

“All any commander can do is give his men the chance for an honorable death in battle. Many meet worse fates in this world.”

“And what fate will I meet when called to account for those I led into slaughter?” William yelled at Eskild. “How many more will I throw away without even considering the effect of my commands?”

Eskild didn’t flinch or even acknowledge the anger William turned on him. “Until your last breath or the war’s end, whichever comes first. This is what war is.”

William stood and wiped his face, looking away so Eskild wouldn’t see his tears. A Disciple finally arrived, kneeling next to the man and closing his eyes. William and Eskild moved on, leaving the Disciple to usher the man’s soul to the Ancients in peace. As they walked away, Eskild looked back as the Disciple knelt over the dead soldier. His face hardened.

“There will be consequences for the Lynese disguising themselves as Disciples,” he said. “I’ve seen men killed for less.”

“I’m surprised it bothers you so much. I would have thought, being from Thay, you were a ... not a follower of the Acolytes.”

“You can say Purifier; it will not cause me to be flayed alive,” Eskild said. “And yes, I am, but that doesn’t mean I take issue with the Disciples. I have seen them heal and tend to too many dying men in too many battles. Besides, we aren’t as different as you’d like to think. We believe in the Ancients, just not your veneration of them.”

“Oh,” William said.

It was like hearing someone tell you they could fly like a wyvern and land on the moon. Instead, he asked, “What of Sir Drummond? Does he still live?”

“Yes. They took him to the field hospital, half-dead and leaking, but he was alive the last time I saw him.”

“I should ... when we’re done here, I should go see him. Do you think he’d want me to?”

“Why wouldn’t he? I understand your people take visits by members of the royal family as some sign of good deeds.”

“Because I’m the reason he’s there. My uncle and Baron Pembroke both said letting this group in was a mistake, that they couldn’t be trusted. I spoke up and convinced my uncle to let them through. Because of my words, good men now lie dead or dying on this field.”

“Do you know for a fact that they wouldn’t have died otherwise?” Eskild asked. “They were waiting, under guard, yes, but still close to our lines. Are you certain that, if their bait was not taken, they would have remained at a distance, not tried to attack anyway?”

“No, Sir Drummond was watching them, and he had his men ready to deal with them. My bringing new soldiers to reinspect the wagons, allowing us to become surrounded, forced Sir Drummond to respond, charge in to rescue us, thereby weakening our position. Had I not demanded the Disciples be let through, he would have been better prepared. Yes, some may have died still, but far fewer. And almost certainly not the majority of the men we brought with us.”

“Or, they could have convinced Sir Drummond to give them another look, this time surrounding the men without someone like Sir Drummond on the outside, ready to charge in and keep the ambush from turning into a slaughter. Perhaps they kill Sir Drummond and all his men and run into the countryside. Or, the ambush doesn’t work, but Sir Drummond’s forces are still weakened, except this time, there isn’t someone to call for reinforcements, realizing the full scope of the enemy’s plan. It is impossible to know what would have happened differently,” Eskild said, and then stopped, placing a hand on William’s shoulder. “Difficult decisions are inherent to command. Evaluating your decisions is wise. Learning from them to keep you from making the same mistakes again is wise. Second-guessing yourself, using information you have now that you didn’t have then, is an exercise in futility. It’s foolish.”

“My uncle had the same information, but he would have made a different decision if not for me.”

“So is he foolish for letting you convince him against his better judgment, or is he so in your thrall that he has no will of his own, save yours?”

“I don’t ... It’s not like that,” William protested.

“It’s not? Then how is his judgment to let you come here and reinspect the wagons blameless, while you asking him to allow you to do it makes you a fool?”

“I ... that’s not the same thing.”

“I’m just telling you how it is; it’s your choice to believe me. What you can’t do, is let the weight of your orders overwhelm you. Leadership is the art of bearing that crushing weight of responsibility you’re feeling without faltering. Of considering each life with equal gravity, and being willing to put those lives at risk if it is needed.”

“Maybe my father was right, and I’m not ready.”

“I’m not sure there’s such a thing as being ready to lead men into war. You only really know once you’re there and see how you hold up under pressure.”

“And we can see how I’m holding up.”

“I’d say you did well. Are you judging yourself unfairly now? Yes. But in the moment, you didn’t stop to chastise yourself or feel sorry for yourself. You gave the orders that needed to be given and put more men’s lives to the test, because that’s what was needed. That’s the man I’d judge, not the one seeing the battle’s aftermath now.”

“But will the men trust me next time?”

“If you show them what you did today ... yes. The men do not expect perfection. Anyone who’s fought in war knows how unpredictable and unforgiving it can be. What they expect is that you weigh decisions well, and that when you spend their lives, you do it consciously, with reason. If you do that, you will have their trust. Speaking as one of those soldiers myself, what I saw today from you was a good start. You kept your head in battle, made the right decisions in a moment of chaos, and gave us a victory. No small feat.”

“Thank you,” William said.

“I was not offering you a compliment, only an honest appraisal.”

William was interrupted before he could think of a response.

“Prince Whitton,” a runner called, jogging over to them. “With Baron Pembroke’s compliments, My Prince, he requests you join him and the other commanders at the assembly area at once to discuss the situation.”

“Tell him we’ll be right there,” William said, sending the man back the way he came.

As the man ran off, Eskild said, “They don’t normally call failures to go over post-battle strategy.”With a pat on his shoulder, Eskild turned and followed the runner toward the gathered commanders. William gave one last look around the battlefield, before he, too, followed, leaving the dying and dead behind.

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor Edmund Whitton stood on the balcony overlooking the palace square, his hands clenching the railing tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. The sound of hundreds of people shouting and screaming floated up to him, each shout for Serwyn’s abdication and each jeer causing his hands to grip even tighter.

A cordon of knights stood fast, blocking the wide entrance into the palace square, but the mob was pushing against them hard. Edmund was no knight, but seeing the numbers of peasants continue to grow, he imagined it only a matter of time before there were enough of them to make it impossible to hold the tide back.

He couldn’t see actual weapons, but here and there peasants were holding lit torches, in spite of the midday hour, which boded ill.

Things had spiraled out of control too quickly, much faster than he’d expected. Yesterday, there had been only fifteen or twenty peasants. Edmund had sent them away, ordering the palace gates barred to all petitioners, thinking they would calm if given time. It had been a non-event, so much so that he hadn’t even told Serwyn about it.

When the boy did finally notice there were people outside, gathered by the courtyard entrance, Edmund had told him he’d handle it. It would not do to fail at such a public, and local, problem. Serwyn was still malleable, and Edmund had yet to remove all the people in the palace who might try to challenge his role with the boy.

“Send for Captain Bramwell,” Edmund yelled over his shoulder to one of his stewards, not bothering to look back at him.

It took almost ten minutes for the captain to appear, Edmund’s fury growing with each minute as he watched the crowd below.

“Your Grace,” Bramwell said, stopping just outside the doorway to the balcony.

Edmund whirled on him, moving close to the captain, “Explain to me what is happening out there. Why have you done nothing about it?”

Captain Bramwell straightened to attention, keeping his gaze fixed steadily ahead, and said, “Your Grace, the crowd started gathering before dawn, enlarging on the group that was here yesterday. At first, just a trickle of peasants drifted in through the city gates. My men kept watch but did not intervene as the numbers were small. However, over the last few hours, more and more have flooded into the square. I attempted to speak with some of the ringleaders, to convince them to disperse peacefully, but they are too angry to give up yet. By my estimate, there are close to a thousand peasants crowded into the square now, with more arriving by the minute. My guards are heavily outnumbered. Any attempt to remove them now will come with bloodshed.”