The Unknown Enemy.Chapter 14

Chapter 14.

 

Loose Ends.

Back in the King’s office, the footman returned.

“Now,” said Syldan. “I have been cooped up in this palace for far too long. Have my horse saddled; I am going to see for myself what happened.”

Before his horse and the escort could be readied, a messenger galloped into the palace courtyard. He dismounted and knelt before the King.

Syldan frowned. “Forester recruits do not usually carry messages. So, Gregan, explain.”

Gregan grinned, his face flushed from the ride. “This message is far too important to be entrusted to a mere messenger, sire.” He fished in his tunic and brought out a letter.

Syldan took it and scanned the parchment. He let out a sharp, joyous laugh that startled the nearby guards. “Naeve has given me a grandson!”

Gregan stood up. “Congratulations, sire. Princess Naeve and your grandson, Prince Naedan, are both fit and well.”

“Thank you,” said Syldan, his eyes crinkling. “Now, your uncle is around the palace somewhere; I suggest you find him and tell him the news yourself.”

Gregan saluted and strode away with a spring in his step.

The sun was low when Syldan’s small escort rode through the outer gate of Mardan’s estate. Evening light stretched across the courtyard in heavy, copper bars, catching on the damp cobbles and the dark stains that had not yet been scrubbed away.

His nephew, Mardan, was waiting for him, “Your Majesty.”

“Mardan.” Syldan’s gaze swept the courtyard, the patched wall, the stacked shields, the Foresters moving with quiet purpose as they finished securing the grounds. “Report.”

“Contained, sire,” Mardan said. “The clansmen are dead. The bandits are bound and under guard. Smike is seeing to the last of the wounded. Sergeant Jenner would like a word, sire.”

“Of course,” replied Syldan.

Jenner stepped forward and saluted. “If it please Your Majesty...” His voice carried a rare hesitation.

“Go ahead, man,” said the King.

“The clansmen,” Jenner said. “Captain Smike asked what should be done with them. I had my patrol wrap the bodies carefully. I don’t like to presume to advise Your Highness, but... it would be good policy to return them to their clan chief.”

The bodies of the clansmen were laid out in a neat row, each wrapped in clean cloth. No trophies had been taken; no marks of disrespect marred them. Jenner stood beside the King, hands folded behind his back.

“The chief will want to see for himself,” he murmured. “It matters to them how a man falls.”

Syldan nodded. “Then he shall. Can you arrange it?”

Jenner saluted again. “Yes, sire. Without delay.”

When the clan chief arrived, he said nothing at first. He knelt beside the first body, unwrapped the cloth to the shoulders, and examined the wounds.

They were all in the front.

He rewrapped the man carefully and moved to the next. By the fourth, his shoulders eased. By the last, he bowed his head.

“They died facing the steel,” he said quietly. “As they should.”

Syldan inclined his head in return, not as a King to a subject, but as one warrior acknowledging another’s dead.

“They fought as warriors,” he said, “and they died as warriors.”

The chief lingered after covering the last of his fallen. Then he rose, stepped to the bare patch of earth before Syldan, and knelt again. With two fingers, he drew a jagged line in the dust, a lightning-bolt slash. Across it, he pressed a straight mark, the thrust of a spear.

Jenner inhaled softly. Even Syldan felt the weight of it.

“The Doon,” the chief said. “Our oath-sign. Given rarely... and never without thought.”

He looked up, eyes steady. “Friendship between our peoples is a narrow path. But at least we are not enemies.”

His gaze drifted to the row of wrapped bodies. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “how many of your Foresters fell to my warriors?”

Jenner answered. “None.”

For a heartbeat, the chief didn’t move. Then his eyes widened, not in disbelief, but in something closer to reverence. He let out a slow breath.

“None,” he repeated. “Against my best.”

He bowed his head, acknowledging the skill of his opponents. “Your warriors stood like an iron wall. The clans will speak of this.”

He touched the mark of the Doon again, more firmly this time. “If ever you have need of us, send this sign.”

Syldan knelt opposite him, mirroring the gesture. “And if ever the clans have need of me, send the same sign, and I will answer.”

The chief’s expression softened, not quite a smile, but the closest a man of his bearing would allow. He rose, placed his hand briefly over his heart, and bowed his head. “He lied to us. We are not used to men who seek to mislead

Syldan leaned slightly on his cane, his eyes meeting the chief’s with a weary understanding. He knew this was the nearest thing to an apology the man would ever give, and perhaps the most honest words spoken in that courtyard all day.

“A man who fights with a tongue of snakes is more dangerous than one who fights with a blade of steel,” Syldan replied. “My world is full of them, Chief. It is why I value the sight of a man who stands his ground, even if he stands against me.”

The chief held his gaze for a moment, a silent accord passing between them. “Then we understand one another,” he said.

Word of that gesture travelled farther and faster than any messenger.

It was well past nightfall when Smike finally turned his attention to the last unanswered question.

“The watchmen,” he said. “The ones taken from the towers; they must still be in the hills.”

Mardan nodded grimly. “The bandits who stayed behind.”

Smike didn’t waste time. A couple of days later, Foresters moved out in disciplined pairs, their lanterns cutting through the dark like needles. The mist clung low, muffling sound, but the Foresters knew how to read the land, broken branches, scuffed earth, the faint smell of woodsmoke.

It didn’t take long. A shout came from the ridge above the old sheep track. “Captain! Over here!”

Smike and Sergeant Block climbed the slope. The patrol had found a small hollow beneath an overhang, a makeshift camp, hastily abandoned. A few embers still glowed in the firepit. Beside it, bound hand and foot, were the watchmen.

They blinked against the lantern light, pale and exhausted but alive.

“Captain,” one croaked, “they left us here. Said they’d come back for us after the raid.”

Another swallowed hard. “They tricked us, sir. One of them... he could mimic a woman’s voice. Called for help outside the tower door. We thought—” His face burned with shame. “We thought someone was in trouble.”

Smike’s jaw tightened, but he cut the ropes himself. “They won’t be coming back.”

The watchmen sagged with relief as Foresters helped them to their feet, wrapping them in spare cloaks and offering water.

“One of them kept using that voice,” the first watchman muttered, shuddering. “Mocking us. Said we were ‘gallant lads’ for rushing to rescue a damsel.”

Smike stepped forward, his expression softening. “You’ve done your duty,” he said. “That’s all any man can be asked to do.”

The watchmen bowed awkwardly, still shaking. Block gestured toward the path. “Come on. We’ll get you home.”

As the group made their way back down the slope, Smike paused, looking out over the dark mountains. The danger was gone. The kingdom was whole again. And every man, living or dead, was accounted for.

He exhaled, the last knot of worry easing from his shoulders. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

They walked back toward the lights of the village, leaving the empty bandit camp to the night.

Smike reported to the palace that the guards had been rescued and that the towers were now operating properly.

Syldan nodded. “There are still a few things to clear up from this,” he said. “First of all, I have to soothe the tempers of the Council. All this was done without them being consulted.”

“There wasn’t much time to debate what needed doing, sire,” said Smike.

Syldan grinned. “Thallian has traced the agents who carried the messages from Albert to Tizard, and they have been dealt with.”

“Good,” said Smike.

“Finally,” said Syldan. “There is something you can do. The Border Guard need improving. I would like you to take over them. Recruit, retrain, weed out, whatever is needed. But make them as sharp as the Foresters, if you can.”

“I will do my best, sire,” said Smike.

“And at least that will stop the Master of Signals and the Marshal from complaining that I have left the kingdom unguarded. Though I expect the Treasurer and the Chancellor will complain about the extra cost,” Syldan said, smiling. “People expect to be protected from bandits and wild animals, but they loathe paying for it. My problems, not yours. Just get the Border Guard sorted. And never mind the expense.”

Captain Smike saluted and turned to leave.

Syldan spoke again, his voice echoing in the hall. “The kingdom is in your debt once again, Colonel Smike.”