Page 43 of Reign

The crackling brazier—a portable firepit—kept the tent toasty, though Fitzroy still donned an ermine-lined coat. I couldn’t decide whether his ostentatious attire served as a reminder of his wealth and power, or if he knew that the white fur complemented his dark features.

Seated at his mahogany desk beside his military advisers, he downed goblets of wine as they plotted the invasion. His inner circle of confidants was comprised of two men who looked wealthier than a monastery and older than the religion practiced within one. I’d never understood seeking advice from the elderly; every senior I’d ever met lived in the past, detached from the realities of the present and yearning for bygone days.

Feigning focus on greasing the armor, I listened to their deliberations.

“W-w-when I was a boy, w-we w-were born knowing how to fight,” stammered the adviser who looked closer to death. “I don’t know w-where these soldiers w-were raised, but I know it w-was not in the same kingdom as me.”

As Fitzroy rolled his eyes, already exasperated by the unhelpful agism, a biting draft swept through the tent. The King’s esquire scuttled inside, drenched and looking like a drowned rat. Shaking off the raindrops clinging to his cloak, he shoved past me as though I didn’t exist.

Leaning over Fitzroy’s shoulder, the esquire placed a roll of parchment atop the military map spread across the table. “You’ve received correspondence from the Lord of the Wetlands,” he announced. “He apologizes for the delay in sending the soldiers he promised the King. The letter explains that no villagers can be spared until it’s certain none possess magical abilities. As for his knights, they’re preoccupied with searching for a missing village girl. He believes she may know what happened to his murdered daughter…if she’s still alive.”

Fitzroy snatched the scroll and unrolled it with an impatient flick. “Write back to the lord and tell him I care naught about a missing village girl. It’s his feudal obligation to provide his sovereign with soldiers when called upon.” Slamming his fists onto the table, he crumpled the letter in frustration. “Tell him to send me more men and coinage—or face losing his land and titles.”

The esquire nodded, hastily picking up his quill to draft a reply.

“Bart,” Fitzroy said, turning to the eldest adviser. “How would you win a war when our noblemen fail to promptly respond to the King’s calls to battle?”

I was surprised that Bart had heard a word Fitzroy uttered, given he had more hair curling from his large ears than growing on his balding head.

“W-when I advised your father on his invasion of the Bristolia Islands,” Bart stuttered. “W-we managed that campaign w-with just a fraction of the soldiers that have been sent to fight in Cambas. Successful pushes can be achieved w-w-with smaller armies than desired.”

Fitzroy shook his head before the old man could finish. “You cannot compare a skirmish with drunken pirates to a war against a powerful sorceress,” he snapped, his fist tapping the table. “If Regina’s army was easy to defeat, my father would be here, at Cambas, waiting to claim glory for a valiant victory. But he isn’t—because he doubts it’s possible.”

Bart raised a shaky finger and said, “Do you w-want my advice or not?”

Fitzroy glared at him, jaw clenched, fists pulsing. “No.”

Turning his back to Bart, cutting him out of the conversation, Fitzroy addressed the other adviser. “Benedict, I propose we keep our skilled craftsmen—blacksmiths, carpenters, stonemasons, and weavers—safe here in Cambas.” He tapped the map as he spoke. “They’re too valuable to lose at sea.”

Benedict stroked his long, gray beard and nodded. “Unless they’re experienced sailors—in which case we’ll need them on deck.”

“You’re right,” Fitzroy agreed—something I hadn’t known he was capable of. “How many knights should remain onshore?”

I glanced up from my greasing to see Benedict twirling his mustache, his bushy brow furrowed in deep thought.

After a brief pause spent debating this conundrum, Benedict cleared his throat. “A few to guard Your Grace, but it’s unlikely Regina has the capacity to launch a counterstrike on Cambas. If we execute my plan, her army will be too stretched to respond with a retaliatory invasion.”

Fitzroy twisted the jewel-encrusted rings on his gloved fingers and nodded. “How would you suggest I organize my army?”

Bart opened his mouth, lifting his wrinkled finger once more. “W-well, I w-w-would—”

“Silence, old fool,” Fitzroy spat. “I wasn’t asking you.”

Benedict smirked, clearly relishing Fitzroy’s favor. “Start by sending twenty ships, each carrying fifty unskilled soldiers.” He slid his finger along the battle map. “Let Regina’s forces expend themselves on invaluable men. Close behind, send fifteen more ships with knights, archers, and crossbowmen. The first ships take the major blows, and then the equipped, battle-ready men will disembark on the Isle.”

“It’s cruel—using these men like they’re nothing but shields,” Fitzroy said.

“Set your conscience aside,” Bart butted in. “It w-will make you cowardly. Peasants serve little purpose beyond decoys.”

Ignoring the interruption, Fitzroy kept his focus fixed on Benedict. “And if Regina attacks from the skies?”

“Her dragon can only incinerate one ship at a time,” Benedict replied. “Pray that most sail unscathed.”

Fitzroy bit his plump bottom lip, as though he didn’t like relying on the gods’ good graces. “Is there no way to bring down the dragon?”

Benedict shook his head. “You’d have more to fear from Regina’s wrath if you killed her beloved beast than you do from the fire-breathing dragon itself.”

“The gods favor us,” the esquire added, glancing up from his writing. “They’ll help our King win this war—not that evil sorceress.”