Page 29 of Keeper of the Word (The Unsung and the Wolf Duology #2)
Chapter
Twenty-Four
TOLVAR
T he five-day journey to the rendezvous point on the Greenwood-Askella border had been uneventful. Tolvar was more than unhappy about that. Not a trace of Crevan. Not a sign that anyone followed them. Not an indication of a trail that Tolvar could pick up again.
Gus had been loyal. He’d tracked each area they paused at without question or comment.
If darkness cannot be raised, then…bring down the light.
Tolvar did not need to see Crevan face-to-face. He knew ’twas him. Gus and the others had not been there in Deogol. No one other than he could have written that statement in the dirt.
But now that Tolvar was at the base camp of Greenwood’s army, he had to shrug off this cat-and-mouse act. Stars.
From Tolvar’s vantage on the hill, the organized line of tents and stalls was a stark contrast to the scarred battlefield—strangely quiet this afternoon— a quarter mile from where the borders of the three provinces of Askella, Anscom, and Greenwood met.
Anscom’s men had withdrawn at midday and not reentered the field since.
To the west of the battlefield, Tolvar’s men had shored up a temporary defensive fence along the Askella border.
Sir Bernwald had traveled from Thorin Court, gathering forces along the way, and posted seven dozen soldiers there.
The other five dozen of Tolvar’s men were either currently at Greenwood’s base camp or had headed for Lessio to resupply the camp.
Next to Tolvar, holding a spyglass to his eye, stood the Earl of Greenwood, who, in keeping with his family’s tradition, answered to his title, Greenwood.
The older man was as tall as Tolvar, and despite his age, he’d obviously never slowed in his training.
One might think he was only a decade older than Tolvar’s twenty-six years save for his grey sideburns poking out from under his cap.
In the two days that Tolvar had been here, neither man had mentioned the border skirmish. Greenwood had audibly sighed in relief when Tolvar and Gus arrived.
Greenwood held the spyglass at his side. “Still no sign of men preparing. I see no one armoring themselves.” His focus held to the Anscom camp. “What can Turas be thinking?” he said, referring to the Earl of Anscom.
Tolvar hadn’t yet pieced it together, either.
When he’d arrived, his first suggestion was to parley with Turas, but Greenwood’s commander informed him that they’d already tried twice and that Turas would not consider it.
Mayhap ’twas time for the Wolf to try his hand.
Besides the two small battles—if one could call the second one a battle—Tolvar and everyone else had sat around in a stalemate of sorts.
Tolvar’s focus shifted to the mass grave that had been dug for Greenwood’s fallen men. He felt a pang for so many lives lost, especially given that what he’d witnessed thus far warranted nothing close to killing over.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since before dawn. Usually, his adrenaline suppressed his hunger during battles, but standing on this hill was naught to get excited about.
“Fetch me if any movements change,” Tolvar said, clapping Greenwood on the back. He made his way down the hill to where the camp for the earls and high officers stood. Gus followed, having stood in the background all afternoon.
They sat at a wooden table that had been brought in and centered between the tents, a nearby cookfire wafting the aroma of a gamey stew.
A burly cook dished up two bowls and placed them in front of Tolvar and Gus, took two small rolls out of his apron pocket and dropped them on the table, then shuffled off before Tolvar could thank him.
The stew being yet too hot to eat, Tolvar picked at his roll, which had been made with far too much salt.
Ah, the food of wartime. Inspecting the stew, Tolvar only imagined how salty it would taste.
The cook provided at Tolvar’s camp in the War of a Hundred Nights had been an eclectic chef, too.
He’d used few herbs. But one wasn’t picky about meals in war.
War.
This was not a war. This was some sort of childish standoff. Tolvar meant to get to the bottom of this. And quickly. He could buy himself some time to hunt for Crevan.
Mayhap in the morning, he and Gus would ride out to Turas’s camp and figure out how to convince everyone to retreat to their own provinces.
Greenwood claimed Anscom had attacked unprovoked. Sir Bernwald had said that when he arrived three days ago, the two earls had withdrawn to their own sides of the battlefield—probably to bury their dead, he’d added.
Yesterday had been the only halfway exciting day: a short battle had erupted but soon declined after.
Tolvar had stepped onto the field with two dozen men, but as soon as they attained the first sign of victory, Anscom’s army took refuge at their end.
Tolvar had never experienced anything of the like.
Certainly, it had to mean that Anscom did not wish to be fighting any more than Greenwood or he did. They were neighbors, after all.
Tolvar took his first bite of the stew; his eyes burned from the salt. After a few mouthfuls, he slid his bowl over to Gus. “Here.”
“I still do not follow you,” Tolvar said to Turas, the Earl of Anscom .
They met in Turas’s tent, a luxurious yellow and blue canvas that housed two plush chairs in which they sat.
A large chest stood in the corner, an expensive lace cloth draped over it, which held several glass decanters filled with colorful liquids.
Tolvar silently counted how many moons it had been since he’d had a drop of liquor.
Almost five. He could make it to the next full moon.
For Sloane. He fidgeted with his pocket for a moment before remembering, yet again, that Elanna had the Edan Stone.
His other hand found the moon cuff in the opposite pocket.
He gave it a squeeze while ignoring the goblet of wine that had been placed on the round table next to him.
Across from him, Turas swirled his goblet.
The refined man, who was about a dozen years Tolvar’s senior, had the beginnings of a paunch accentuated in his seated position.
His round arms and thighs revealed an earl who no longer trained but instead let his wealth buy him an army to demonstrate his might.
Anscom, the closest Lenforese province to Asalle, was the largest and wealthiest of the country's provinces.
Its capital, Blagdon, where Turas hailed, was close to the size of Asalle itself and was the third largest port along the Glendower River.
Tolvar’s father had fostered Turas for a time while he’d trained as a squire. Tolvar, not yet a page, had shadowed Turas, eager to please a young Sir Bernwald, who’d recently been knighted into his father’s service. The man in front of him resembled nothing of that energetic youth.
“What is there to follow?” Turas sipped his wine. “After receiving the message of the third attack from Greenwood along our border, I had to act. I came here to witness it for myself. I even offered to parley with Greenwood, but that old goat refused.”
“I was told Greenwood has tried to parley with you but that you refused.”
“Well, I did refuse after he attacked my army again following my arrival. What sort of coward attacks and then offers parley?”
“Mayhap he did not yet know you’d arrived. At any rate, Greenwood swears ’tis you who attacked him first.”
“You insult me, Lord Tolvar. First, you come here to aid Greenwood without discovering all the facts, and now you accuse me of aggression! That man is a liar and is clearly after acreage from my land. He’s always wanted the north of the Greenwood Forest.”
Tolvar chuckled. “Well, as the forest is called Greenwood Forest, he may have a point. Besides, what is that skimming of forest to you? How much land is it? A little less than one hundred acres? There are three other forests in Anscom.”
“Two.”
“What do you mean?”
“The North Forest has”—Turas swirled the contents of his goblet—“changed. There are tales.”
“What tales?” Tolvar hated being on the outside of news.
“Over the course of the last moon, travelers have gone missing there.”
Tolvar sputtered a laugh. “How? The North Forest’s Road is wider in places than the Capella Road.”
Turas shrugged. “I know not, and there have been no signs of bandits. But my last large export to Namid disappeared without a trace. A dozen of my farmers lost their goods and coin, too, I might add. Blagdon has had to subsidize numerous spring crops this season.”
Tolvar didn’t roll his eyes. Loss of coin. ’Twas well known Turas had as much income as the House of Sidra.
The North Forest was an essential resource for Lenfore.
One-third of the country’s lumber came from there.
And it was a main thoroughfare for trade.
If the North Forest couldn’t be accessed, reaching the northern provinces of Lenfore would take weeks, besides reaching the provinces to the south—Askella itself would have trade delays. But Tolvar couldn’t consider that now.
“Regardless. ’Tis one hundred acres. Hardly a reason to be locked here in battle. Blast it! We should all be sitting here together. I’m not some go-between ninny page boy. I have my own goings-on.”
“Aye. I hear that you’re at service to an unusual maiden at present.”
Tolvar wasn’t surprised that news had traveled to all places, especially Blagdon, but he still didn’t like it. He chose not to respond.
“Might we meet with Greenwood? You say he attacked you. He says you attacked him. Clearly, this is a misunderstanding and a waste of all our time and resources. Especially if you have other issues like catching highwaymen in the North Forest.”
Turas took another sip of wine. “’Tis not highwaymen. ’Tis something else.”
“You cannot be certain.” Stars. “Let us end this, and I’ll help you track them down myself. This issue of the North Forest sounds to be a much greater problem than Greenwood wanting a few of your trees.”
Turas’s face screwed up into a red ball of anger. “That man is a liar, and I shall not give him a twig. I did not attack first.”
Tolvar ran his hand through his hair. The honor of honor’s sake. Stars.
“Very well. I shall return to Greenwood. But I want your word that you will not open battle again until I return to this camp.”
Turas gaped at him, affronted. “I do not think you realize what you’ve walked into, Tolvar. And as I said, I did not begin this war. If I see Greenwood enter the field, I shall not tarry.”