The Thief's Daughter (Kingfountain #2)

The trumpets blared again—a haunting sound.

“Gather the men to me,” Owen ordered. “Stop rifling through their braies! Now’s not the time to plunder. Pull the men in. Have the archers stand ready.”

There was a ripple in the magic of the Fountain, and it made Owen clench his teeth with dread. Something was not right. He was sweating, casting his eyes around amidst the chaos for some sign of the source of the trumpeting.

Clark returned in moments, his face dark with concern. “Brythonic knights,” he said gruffly. “They attacked the other side of the Occitanians’ camp. The army is scattering.”

Horwath walked up to Owen, sword in hand. “We’re in a vulnerable position if those knights turn on us.”

“Agreed,” Owen said. He felt that strange, jarring pulse of the Fountain again. “We did what we came to do. Call all the men back. Bring them to me.”

The commotion of the night only increased as more sounds of fighting came ghosting in from across the camp.

“My lord,” Clark said in his ear, “I have a horse ready for you.”

Owen turned and shook his head. “If I abandon these men, I’m no better than Chatriyon.”

The Espion scowled, giving him a fierce, weighing look. It was clear he was deciding whether to risk Owen’s wrath by insisting again that he flee.

“Here they come,” Horwath said, tightening his grip on his sword.

Owen saw the flag before he saw the man. The standard was a field of white with black trim made from a quarter circle. The symbol amidst the white was a black-feathered bird, a crow or a raven, with a hooked beak. It struck Owen that King Severn’s standard—a white boar on a black field—had a mirrored element.

The man riding the horse with the standard was middle-aged, about the same age as Severn. Although he was not an old man, his hair was slate gray and combed forward in the Occitanian style. He had a stern, brooding look in his eyes as his mount approached Owen’s men, who gathered around him like a wall. The rider did not have any weapons drawn, and a long, white cape came down from his shoulders, covering the withers of his steed.

“Marshal Roux,” Duke Horwath said evenly.

The stern man seemed to notice Horwath for the first time. “Duke Horwath,” he said with a stiff nod and a slight accent. He adjusted himself in the saddle. “You’re a little far from North Cumbria, my lord. Aren’t you afraid of melting this far south? You lead this band? I thought it was Kiskaddon.”

“It is,” Owen said, feeling the Fountain’s force ebb to a trickle now. He could discern that although the man was gruff, he did not intend to attack. The young duke kept his hand on his sword hilt anyway. He did not trust in coincidences.

The marshal turned toward the sound of Owen’s voice, seeming to notice him for the first time. “Oh, you are here. I hadn’t recognized you in the dark. My lord duke, I have a message for you from my lady, the Duchess of Brythonica. She thanks you for your pains in defending her sovereign rights. Your timely involvement has routed Chatriyon’s army. We’ll take it from here. I’ve ordered my knights to harry them back to their own borders. She bids me to thank you and your king for interceding on her behalf. You have a loyal ally in Her Majesty. When war comes to Ceredigion, you may be assured she will not forget the favor done to her and she will repay your kindness with her own. Thus speaks my lady.” He bowed his head respectfully to Owen. He extended his arm and waved it ceremoniously. “Please divide the spoils amongst your men. Your bravery has earned you that right. I am Brendon Roux, marshal and protector of Brythonica. By your leave.”

“Tell your lady,” Owen said, nodding respectfully in return, “that it was our honor and privilege to come to her aid. Our lands border each other. We should be allies.”

The marshal’s brow knitted darkly. “I will tell her you said so,” he said stiffly. Then he turned and rode back, his armed knights following him back into the maze of flapping tents and groans.

Owen turned to Horwath, whose eyes bore a distrusting look.

The grizzled duke rubbed his chin. “It was interesting that his knights attacked Chatriyon’s army at exactly the same time as ours did. It was almost as if . . .”

“They were expecting us,” Owen said softly, frowning.





CHAPTER THREE


Resurgence




Later that morning, Owen’s pavilion was full of men, and it was all he could do to curb their enthusiasm. King Chatriyon VIII’s army had been routed and was still fleeing, nipped at the heels by Brythonic knights. The king had made it to the safety of a castle deeper in his own territory, and word of the victory was spreading throughout the hamlets of eastern Occitania. Owen’s captains had achieved victory without a single injury, a feat that had earned him enormous respect and gratitude. Young Kiskaddon’s gifts from the Fountain did not just extend to dreams of the future, it was whispered; he had an unparalleled ability for combat too.

“My lord,” Farnes said as the herald butted his way through two captains. He swiped his hand through his graying reddish hair. A grin threatened to break through his normally placid composure—and then did. “My lord, the mayor of Averanche has arrived with a delegation from the city.” His lips quivered with suppressed delight. “They’ve come . . . well, they’ve come to surrender their castle and city to you and swear loyalty to Ceredigion.”

Owen was taken aback. “Did I hear you correctly, Farnes? A town wants to surrender before we’ve attacked it? Where is Averanche? I need a map.”

“Over here, my lord,” said Captain Ashby.

Owen looked at Duke Horwath in disbelief, shrugging his shoulders and stifling a chuckle. Ashby brought over the map, and several men crowded around the precious document, trying to find the location of Averanche.

Owen shooed them away and motioned for Farnes and the duke to join him, and together they pored over the cartographer’s map. There was so little they knew of Occitania and her cities and duchies. The coastal ports were well marked, but the information about the interior castles and towns was vague. King Severn had a host of mapmakers under his employ, and the Espion had the most accurate maps of anyone, but they were guarded as state secrets. He couldn’t find Averanche.

“Well, Farnes, bring them in and they can point it out to us,” Owen said, clapping the herald on the back. Farnes chuckled and quickly left the tent.

Owen looked up at the captains clustered around the small space. “Start to break camp,” he ordered. “Change the guard and get ready to move. Await your orders.”

“Yes, my lord,” Captain Ashby said. The others hustled out of the tent, leaving only Owen and Duke Horwath.