The King's Blood

One night, a desperate handful of soldiers slipped out of the city and came under cover of darkness to set fire to the catapults. They managed to destroy two before they were caught, and Dawson returned them using a third. He did not kill them first.
    And every morning, the three priests came to him.
    Dawson sat in his leather camp chair, his legs bared, while his squire plucked ticks out of his skin. The bright, damp summer morning reminded him of swimming in a lake. The priests, creatures of the desert, seemed to hate it.
    “My lord, we will win this battle for you if you will allow it.”
    “But I won’t,” Dawson said, as he did every morning. “Antea is strong enough to break Kaltfel without your help, and that’s what I intend to do.”
    “Listen to me, my lord—”
    “We’re done. Go now,” Dawson said, as he did every day. They were silver-tongued. If he let them make their arguments, he might weaken again here as he had at the Seref and the paired keeps. He watched them walk away, and he smiled to himself as they went.
    The camps ate through their supplies, and then turned to the landscape. No tree stood, and the smoke of green wood left the air hazy and white. Carts came in from Antea, and raiding parties pushed farther and farther south toward the marshlands, killing cattle and razing farms. It was a war of endurance, the slow, grudging end to a war that had gone too quickly at the beginning. Dawson’s best estimate was that the landscape would bear the scars for a generation.
    Twenty days into the siege, one of his own men died of a fever he’d caught in the southern marshes. Dawson stood rites over him in lieu of a real priest, then he’d ordered the fallen soldier dismembered and his body flung into the city.
    On the twenty-first day, a banner of parley rose over the southern gate, and three unarmed men on horseback rode out. Dawson took Fallon Broot and Dacid Bannien for his. The three priests he left pointedly behind. They sat at a table in the empty space between tiring army and eroding city. The men of Asterilhold held themselves proudly, but they rode thin horses and their cheeks were sharp. Dawson’s squire had brought a ham and a basket of summer apples, a wheel of cheese and a tun of beer. Dawson saw his enemies looking at it, but he made them no offers.
    “Lord Kalliam, I take it,” the eldest of the three riders said as he took his seat. “Your reputation precedes you.”
    “I am sorry not to say the same,” Dawson said, sitting.
    “Mysin Hawl, Count of Evenford.”
    Dawson nodded. The ground was uneven, and the table rocked slightly as Count Hawl leaned against it.
    “You know,” the Count of Evenford said, “that we have the resources to withstand your siege.”
    “No, you don’t,” Dawson said. “We came faster than you anticipated and with more men. You were caught napping. And even if you had the food and water to squat behind your walls for a year, it wouldn’t change the end.”
    The man sucked his teeth and shrugged.
    “I have come to ask what terms you would require to end this.”
    “Are you empowered to offer surrender?”
    “I am not,” the count said. “Only the king has that authority.”
    “Then perhaps I should speak to the king.”
    Behind him, Fallon Broot chuckled, and Dawson felt a pang of annoyance. Perhaps he should have brought someone else.
    “I am authorized to bring whatever message you care directly to his majesty.”
    Dawson nodded.
    “He will open the gates of Kaltfel and surrender himself and every man involved in the plot against Prince Aster to me. We will sack for twelve hours. Not more. After that, all the holdings and territories of Asterilhold are under my protection until such time as your king and Lord Regent Palliako come to a final agreement.”
    “Then perhaps I should speak to the Lord Regent,” the count said.
    “You wouldn’t enjoy the experience,” Dawson said.
    “I will carry this to King Lechan,” the count said. “May we meet again in the morning?”
    “If we remain under parley, then yes.”
    “We will make no attempt to attack or escape,” the count said.
    “Then I will wait for your king’s reply,” Dawson said, and nodded to Broot and Bannien. The pair brought the food-stuffs and placed them on the table. “A token of our esteem. They’re not poisoned.”
    He rode back to the camp smiling. It was almost over.
    M
    y lord.”
    Dawson shifted in his cot, fighting toward consciousness. The tent