Ormund looked at the storm and rain from the balcony.
Lightning struck in brilliant white forks, illuminating the darkened sky for brief moments before plunging everything back into grey gloom. Heavy thunder rolled across the landscape, so deep and powerful he could feel it in his chest. The rain was slowing in strength now, finally, but it still came down in steady sheets that turned the courtyard below into a muddy morass.
The summer rains were not supposed to be like this. Normally, they were gentle, nourishing—welcome after winter's cold. But this time, the rains had been relentless all week, turning roads into rivers of mud, flooding fields, and drowning seedlings before they could properly take root. The smallfolk were already whispering that it was a bad omen, that the gods were displeased.
Just another problem for him to deal with, Ormund thought as he reached up to make sure his crown sat properly on his head.
The crown was golden, beautifully crafted, with stag horns that seemed to weave naturally into the circlet itself, as if they had grown there rather than been forged. It had been his grandfather's the only heirloom his father had.
Inside the room behind him, his most loyal lords talked, their voices rising and falling with the intensity of their debate. Lord Fell, Lord Grandison, Lord Errol, Lord Caffren all men who had thrown their support behind his claim.
Ormund was not paying particular attention, but he could hear snippets of their argument.
"—should move on Storm's End now," Lord Fell was arguing passionately. "Strike while the weather keeps other forces bottled up! Take the castle, and the war is won!"
"You're a fool if you think it's that simple," Lord Errol disagreed sharply. "What about the danger from the north? Argella is plotting with the sorcerer king. What if he decides to intervene?"
"By the time he could march, we'd already have Storm's End," Lord Caffren said, supporting Fell. "And with the fortress in our hands, the kingdom will be ours."
"Caffren speaks truly," Lord Grandison added. "Take Storm's End, and the war is effectively over. We can easily defeat Baldric and Lyonel after that with Storm's End in our hands."
"You forget Argella's loyalists," Ormund spoke up quietly, not turning from the balcony.
The lords fell silent for a moment.
"Your Grace," Lord Caffren said carefully, "Tarth and Dondarrion will fall in line after you take Storm's End. They're pragmatists. With them, Baldric and that fool Lyonel will have no choice but to surrender."
They continued arguing, voices rising again, but Ormund let them talk. He had little more to say on the matter, and they would convince themselves one way or another regardless of his input.
His mind drifted to the past, as it so often did these days.
King Argilac had been his uncle. Ormund's father, Robert Durrandon, had been Argilac's heir before Argella was born. According to law and tradition, his father should have remained heir even after Argella's birth a daughter could not supersede a man in the line of succession.
But Argilac, in what his father had told Ormund was jealousy and paranoia, had changed the succession. Robert had always been the better man better in mind, better with the sword, better at diplomacy and governance. Everyone had known it. And Argilac, threatened by his younger brother's competence, had used Argella's birth as an excuse.
He had effectively exiled Robert to a small keep in Massey's Hook, far from the court where he might gather support or remind people of what a true king should be.
Ormund remembered his father's death, remembered the bitterness in the man's eyes as he made Ormund promise to ensure their line sat on the Storm King's throne, as was their right.
Ormund had not planned to usurp his cousin at first. He had held the girl in his arms when she was but a tot, had been fond of her in those early years. She had been a bright child, quick to smile.
He had returned to Storm's End and faithfully served his king. He had even planned to have his eldest son marry Argella what better way to unite the family and secure both their futures?
Yet he had been rebuffed. Argilac had refused the match with barely concealed contempt, had made it clear that Ormund's line would never be elevated, would never be restored to their rightful place.
And then, like his father before him, Ormund had been evicted from Storm's End, sent away with polite words that barely concealed the insult beneath.
Ormund had not forgotten that insult. He would never forget it. He would make sure his father's promise was kept, that their bloodline reclaimed what had been stolen from them.
He had found allies among the northern lords of the Stormlands easily enough. They did not want a woman as their ruler, especially not a young, unmarried woman with no heirs and no husband to guide her. They saw in Ormund a man with three strong sons and three daughters a man who had proven himself time and again as a renowned knight, a man who had led the campaign to fight off the slaver pirates that had threatened the Stormlands' coast for years.
Ormund had made alliances carefully, strategically. He had married his eldest daughter to Fell's heir, his second daughter to Caffren's son, his youngest to Grandison's eldest. His own heir was promised to wed Buckler's daughter, cementing that powerful house's support. His wife was a Massey, which had brought House Massey and their influence in the north firmly into his camp.
The north was secured for him.
Yet he still faced three challenges that stood between him and total victory.
Lyonel and Baldric his second cousins, both with Durrandon blood running through their veins had plans of their own.
Baldric was supported by the southern lords, especially the powerful Lord Connington, who commanded significant forces and wealth. The south had rallied to him, seeing in him a strong warrior king.
Lyonel, meanwhile, was the weakest of the three claimants militarily, with only two major houses supporting him Caron and Selmy. But what he lacked in great lords, he made up for in other ways. He had cultivated broad support among the merchants and minor lords of the eastern coasts, promising them favorable trade arrangements and reduced taxes. Gold, he had discovered, could buy as many swords as noble birth.
Then there was Swann, that snake of a man who held the position of Lord Marshal in King Argilac's court. Ormund had later learned that it was Swann who had soured King Argilac against him, whispering poison about potential rebellion, about Ormund's ambitions, about the danger of allowing Robert Durrandon's son too close to power.
Swann had planned to use Argella as a puppet to rule over the Stormlands. But that had failed miserably with his son's apparent death in the Blackwater campaign and Argella's disappearance north to the sorcerer's court.
Now Swann was at his weakest, holding only Storm's End itself in the name of "Queen Argella," as he put it. His own lands had been invaded by Baldric a blow for Swann, certainly, but also a concern for Ormund, as it only increased Baldric's power and territory.
Swann had turned the Durrandon crownlands into a fortress, maintaining control through brutality. The smallfolk had risen multiple times in rebellion, driven to desperation by the civil war's chaos, the failed harvests, and the competing armies stripping their lands bare. Each uprising had been put down brutally. The atrocities were immense whole villages burned, suspected rebels hanged from trees, women raped, children left orphaned and starving.
The other claimants had faced similar problems. Baldric's forces had massacred a town in the Rainwood that he believed to be sabotaging his efforts. Lyonel, too, had ordered the execution of many in the eastern towns suspected of being spies.
And Ormund, to his shame, had been forced to order similar actions. He had culled many villages in raids into Wylde and Morrigen lands, territories that supported Baldric. It had to be done, he told himself. War was never clean.
The Stormlands were in complete upheaval, tearing themselves apart from within while foreign powers looked on and waited.
Ormund caught himself, his thoughts growing dark, and quickly reminded himself why he was doing this, and why it had to be done. The throne was his by right. His father's promise had to be honored. The throne was his, and his alone.
Baldric and Lyonel were obstacles, yes, but surmountable ones. Eventually, one would overextend, make a mistake, and the other two would pounce, leaving only two and that would certainly be Baldric and Ormund.
Argella was a woman, and now a heretic besides. Her going to the sorcerer king had made everything worse, had tainted her in the eyes of the Faith and the faithful. Any plans he might have entertained of reconciliation, of perhaps letting her live quietly in exile, had ended when she embraced that Covenant blasphemy.
"Your Grace," he heard Lord Caffren call from inside the room.
Ormund turned from the balcony as lightning struck once more, illuminating the flooded courtyard below.
"Have my sons returned?" Ormund asked.
"Yes, Your Grace," Caffren said.
Ormund could hear footsteps from outside the door. Then it opened, and all three of his sons entered Borys, ten and eight, his heir; Boremund, ten and six, his second son; and Borros, ten and four, his youngest boy.
His pride and joy, all three of them.
They were covered in rain and mud, their armor yellow and black of House Durrandon, the true Durrandon line splattered and worn from hard riding. Their faces were drawn with exhaustion, their eyes shadowed.
They came forward and bowed low, speaking in unison. "My King."
"None of that, boys," Ormund said, moving toward them with concern. "What has happened? You were supposed to secure Massey's Hook. The rumors of the attack—"
He stopped, seeing the looks on their faces. Anger. Frustration. And something else shame, perhaps, or grief.
"Speak," Ormund commanded, his voice hardening. "What has happened in the Hook?"
Borys was the one who spoke, being the eldest. His voice was tight with barely controlled fury. "Our craven uncle has bent the knee to Galadon Tarth and to Queen Argella. They marched together with their combined forces, then gave battle to Lord Bar Emmon at Stonedance."
He paused, swallowing hard. "Lord Bar Emmon is dead. His forces were routed. The Hook is lost."
The room erupted.
"By the gods!" Lord Fell swore, slamming his fist on the table.
"Traitor!" Lord Grandison shouted.
"How could he?" Lord Errol said in disbelief. "House Massey swore oaths to you! Your wife is his sister!"
"We should have seen this coming," Lord Caffren said darkly. "Tarth was always too quiet, too careful. He was waiting for the right moment."
Ormund showed no outward reaction, but inside he was seething. His own goodbrother had betrayed him, had bent the knee to that girl, and now held the entire northern coast.
"SILENCE!" Ormund's voice cut through the chaos of his lords' outrage.
They fell quiet immediately.
Ormund spoke slowly, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "This proves it, my lords. The disruptions in our lands over the past months the so-called bandits in Fellwood who seemed to know exactly when our supply carts would pass, the mysterious fires in our storage houses."
He began to pace. "The desertions from our armies. The sabotage of our arms, the loss of horses. And not just in our lands Baldric has faced the same in the Rainwood. Lyonel nearly lost the eastern towns to similar problems."
The lords were listening intently now.
"It all points to one thing," Ormund said, turning to face them. "Argella has been making her move. Not openly she moves in the shadows, with the help of the heretic king."
He pointed toward the balcony, east where Tarth lay. "She commanded Tarth to act. She's been building her strength quietly while we three fools tore each other apart. And this, the taking of the Hook this was just the first open move. There will be more."
Lord Fell spoke up, his voice heated. "How could she have secured the heretic's help? Perhaps with marriage? Did she sell our kingdom to that monster? Trade her maidenhood for his monstrous armies and magics?"
More argument followed, the lords' voices rising as they cursed Argella, calling her all sorts of insults. "Whore," "traitor," "heretic bitch" the words flew freely, each lord trying to outdo the others in their condemnation.
"SILENCE!" Ormund commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos.
They quieted, though anger still burned in their eyes.
"The raids in the north that Lord Buckler is investigating must be Argella's work as well," Ormund said, his voice thoughtful. "It means she must have allies within the kingdom, within the very lands we control. Disloyal lords among us, working in secret."
The lords protested immediately.
"We are loyal, Your Grace!"
"None of us would betray you!"
"Our oaths are iron!"
Ormund raised a hand. "I know you are loyal, my friends. I do not doubt any man in this room. But perhaps there are those under you lesser lords, landed knights, even household men who have been swayed by promises of legitimacy, of royal favor when Argella returns."
Boremund spoke up. "Perhaps she turned those who traveled to the Heartlands to ransom their sons and family members captured in the Blackwater war. They went north, saw the sorcerer's wealth and power, and came back with gold in their purses and treason in their hearts."
"Yes, it could be," Borros agreed eagerly. "We have many among us who made that journey. And I heard that one of the Mertyns publicly joined her cause as well Ser Finnigan, who won the melee at that cursed tourney."
"Lord Buckler will strike a blow to these raiders and make sure that Fellwood is safe from incursion. Any army from the north can be defended as long as Bronzegate stands."
"As is Castle Fell, Your Grace," Lord Fell chimed in proudly, then asked with concern, "Should I go there myself to ensure its defense?"
"That would mean leaving our main force weakened," Ormund said, shaking his head. "Baldric would see it as weakness and attack."
"I believe, Father," Borys said carefully, "that Baldric is too busy with his own forces dying in the Rainwood. If what you say is true, it could be Argella's loyalists striking at him as well. He's bleeding just as we are."
Ormund nodded slowly, then his voice grew more urgent. "We must march on Storm's End soon. Break this stalemate. If Argella is truly now allied with the sorcerer king and he invades the Stormlands while we remain divided…"
"…divided into three squabbling factions, we will be swept aside like chaff."
A silence of fear followed. Every man in the room had heard the stories from the Heartlands of the king who could shout down castle walls, who flew on wings of light, who burned a thousand warriors to ash.
Ormund's voice rang out with command. "Prepare the army to march. Send word to Bronzegate to hold the north against any incursion. We move on Storm's End within the fortnight."
They all nodded, recognizing the necessity despite the risks.
"I am sure that my goodfather can keep the north in check," Borys said with confidence. "No army shall pass the great woods while he holds Bronzegate."
"Let us hope he can hold until we take Storm's End," Ormund said.
He turned to Lord Caffren. "Enact our plans for Swann. The waiting is over. It's time to deal with that snake once and for all."
Caffren's expression showed grim satisfaction. "It will be done, Your Grace. Lord Swann will not see the next moon."
They all bowed as Ormund dismissed them, filing out of the chamber to make their preparations.
Ormund turned back to the balcony as they left.
A large bolt of lightning struck in the distance, illuminating the landscape in stark white light.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Three great strikes, one after another, each brighter than the last.
He wondered if it was a bad omen or a good one.
Three strikes for three claimants? Three strikes heralding three defeats or three victories?
The storm raged on, and Ormund stood watching it, the crown heavy on his head, the weight of his father's promise pressing down on his shoulders.
Soon, he thought. Soon the Stormlands would have a true king again.
And that king would be him.
.
.
.
Lord Hamish Buckler rode with his knights and men-at-arms, all fifty of them, to the north of his lands the borderlands between the Kingdom of the Storm and the Heartlands.
The rain poured down relentlessly, turning the road into a river of mud that sucked at the horses' hooves with every step. They rode hard through the night regardless, pushing their mounts as fast as the conditions allowed. Water streamed from helms and cloaks, and visibility was reduced to mere yards in the darkness and downpour.
They had received word from one of his sworn bannermen, Archibald Wensington, of a large contingent of raiders coming from the Heartlands. More than before Wensington had written of a force large enough to take and hold the northern pass through the Greatwoods that he and Lord Fell shared. An army could easily march through there if it fell.
And if what he had heard from King Ormund was right, then Princess Argella had allied herself with the heretic king and was planning to invade. The Heartlands' forces could pour through that pass like water through a broken dam.
He needed to make sure it was defended, that no one passed through. And if an army was truly approaching, he would immediately send word to the king so he could prepare the full strength of their forces.
They rode through forests, crossed swollen streams that threatened to sweep the horses off their feet, and pushed through terrain that would have been difficult in daylight and good weather but was treacherous now. But they pressed on, driven by urgency.
Finally, after hours of hard riding, they arrived at the meeting point a clearing near the pass where Wensington had said he would meet them with a hundred more men. Lords Staedmon and Trant were to bring two hundred more from their holdings. Enough to meet these raiders and send them running back to whatever hole they had crawled from.
But the clearing was empty nothing but rain and darkness.
"Where are they?" Hamish yelled, making sure his men heard him through the rain and thunder. Then he commanded, "Scout ahead! We'll make camp and—"
He couldn't finish his words as an arrow struck Ser Royne, the captain of his household guard, in the throat.
Royne made a horrible gurgling sound and toppled from his saddle, dead before he hit the ground.
Chaos erupted.
Horses screamed and reared as arrows came flying from the treeline volley after volley, whistling through the rain like deadly hail. Knights fell from their saddles, men-at-arms clutched at shafts protruding from their necks.
"Protect the lord!" someone shouted, and several knights tried to surround Hamish, to ride him away to safety.
But they too were struck down, arrows finding gaps in armor, horses collapsing and throwing their riders into the mud.
A trap, Hamish thought with cold horror. An ambush. Could Wensington be dead too? Killed before he could warn us?
His horse took an arrow to the flank and bucked violently. Hamish, not the best rider even in good conditions, was thrown from the saddle. He hit the muddy ground hard.
Terrified, he scrambled to his feet and tried to run, slipping in the mud, gasping for breath. He had to get away, had to—
An arrow struck him in the leg, punching through the gap between his cuisses and greaves.
Hamish screamed. He collapsed, clutching at his leg, feeling hot blood mixing with the cold rain.
The sound of battle was all around him steel on steel, men screaming, horses dying. He could see figures emerging from the woods now, armed men attacking and killing his knights, cutting down anyone who tried to fight or flee.
"No, no, this can't be," he gasped.
How could raiders reach this far? How did they know they were coming?
Wensington, his mind screamed. Where was Wensington? Where were Staedmon and Trant? They were supposed to be here!
He tried to crawl away, dragging his wounded leg through the mud, leaving a trail of blood behind him. But he froze when he saw horsemen riding up through the chaos.
They dismounted and walked toward him.
"No," Hamish whimpered. "Please, no…"
Two men grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him upright, making him scream again as his wounded leg was jarred. They held him there, facing the approaching figure.
"There are more men coming!" Hamish screamed desperately. "Staedmon and Trant! Two hundred men! They'll finish you off! You'll all die here!"
The approaching figure stopped in front of him. Slowly, the man removed his helm.
Hamish's breath caught in his throat.
Archibald Wensington's face looked back at him, smiling slightly.
"You," Hamish gasped, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. "You…"
"TRAITOR!" he screamed, struggling against the hands holding him. "HOW DARE YOU! I TRUSTED YOU! OUR KING TRUSTED YOU! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?"
He thrashed wildly, trying to break free, to strike at Wensington, to do anything. "King Ormund will have your head! Your family will be attainted! Your lands—"
Wensington raised his sword.
"For the Storm Queen," he said simply.
And brought the sword down into Buckler's neck.
Hamish's scream cut off abruptly. His body went limp in the hands of the men holding him, and they let it fall to the muddy ground.
Wensington turned to his men, specifically one man who stood out slightly, wiping his blade clean on a piece of cloth. "Is it done, Spectre Jaymes?"
A Riverlander-looking man stepped forward. He nodded. "Aye, it's done. It has been planted."
He paused, then added in a dry tone, "Can't believe Lords Trant and Staedmon did this. Betrayed good Lord Buckler and King Ormund like that."
Wensington, along with the others, laughed at the Spectre's jape.
Wensington sheathed his sword and mounted his horse. "Make sure they're all dead. Check every body. No survivors, no witnesses."
His men moved through the clearing, checking corpses, finishing off anyone who still breathed with quick, merciful strikes. The rain helped muffle the sounds, washing away the evidence even as it fell.
Soon they were all prepared to leave. The Spectres, with the help of Wensington's men, worked methodically to remove their tracks, or at least obscure them, making it look like the attackers had come from another direction entirely. The rain helped immensely with this deception.
"Come," Wensington commanded. "We ride to Bronzegate."
He kicked his horse into motion, and his men followed.
The rain continued to fall, washing blood into the mud.
As if the gods themselves wept for the Stormlands, tearing itself apart.
.
.