The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  Maryk and Trant had their flank, and Petteri had point. The rest of the Titans walked en masse along the old dirt track that wound through the farms. Tomas marched next to Barlow. For Henry, every step hurt but the pain was steady. His ribs ached and, they were getting worse. He’d pissed blood the last two mornings. His only solace was that the grey clouds had not yet begun to piss down the rain they held as a promise.

  “Tell me, Barlow,” Tomas said. “What is this area like?”

  Barlow had grown up in Hairngtown, not too far away, but the nobility only left the cities on their way to other cities. He was not the expert he probably should have been.

  Fortunately, today he didn’t have to be.

  “Judec spent some time here as a lad,” Barlow said. “He can tell better than I.”

  Judec smiled. “It’s an old land. The peasants speak with vestiges of an ancient dialect. Some say there was an ancient kingdom here once, ruled by servants of the Passions who could speak with them directly. The ghost of those heroes still roam the land—most of the ruins are haunted. It was a golden age, a time of—”

  “I don’t need the mythology, lad. What is the landscape like?” Tomas interrupted.

  Judec gestured at the rolling farmland that surrounded them. “It’s what you see here. As far as the eye can see. All the way to Baln’s Croft, the local hamlet.”

  They crested a hill and surprised a sheep that had been nibbling on the grass. It looked up, bleated, and sprang away.

  “We are meeting at Ayikdale. Is that a hamlet as well?” Tomas asked.

  Barlow had wondered the same thing. These peasants were naming every last tree, rock, and insignificant bump on the ground.

  At that Eugo the leech shook his head. “No. Ayikdale is the series of hills just there on the horizon. Not much grows there, but there are some ruins.”

  “There is somewhere the peasant children play at fighting mock battles throughout the long summer months,” Judec interjected. “Baldairn’s Motte, it’s called. It’s been a ruin since before my father’s father’s father was alive. It must have been a mighty fortress at one point, but now there is only a great earthen mound surrounded by ring after ring of ditches. The entire thing is covered in grass and shrubs.”

  “How far is that?” Barlow asked.

  Judec looked to Eugo in askance. The healer shrugged. “Not far,” Judec said. “It’s been a while since I’ve returned. This farmland we’re crossing now is the Thurmwood. As we head towards the hills of Ayikdale, we’ll have to cross Gildan’s Sprite.”

  “The Sprite. It runs into the River Ordan,” Barlow said to Tomas.

  “Near North Port, aye,” Judec said.

  “If we don’t find the Marchers in Ayikdale, we’ll follow the river south,” Barlow said. “We should meet up with our forces before we find the enemy. If we don’t, we’ll have to show the Southerners what the Titan Guard is capable of.”

  “And what it means to cross blades with the Marchers,” Tomas added.

  His men were cheered by that. They walked on in silence after that. Barlow wondered where Lord North’s army was. More importantly, where Sturm Galkmeer’s army was.

  Both parts of that question were answered the following night. The rolling farmlands had rolled right into the hills of Ayikdale. They’d camped there that night. The next morning, from afar, they’d seen signs of a great host. They had, in a familiar theme, walked all day and into the evening towards the dust of the south-moving army. As the sun set, and the sky lit up in oranges and purples, they’d discovered the Marcher force. Tomas detached himself from the Titans and joined his men.

  The Titans ate a warm meal and rested their weary feet, watching the darkening sky fill with clouds. Presently an Ashman came to them and caught them up with the last few days of information. There was good news. Lord North was camped only a few miles away. Some of the Marchers had already reached him, and the bulk of the Marcher forces would arrive the next day. Across from the Northern army were parts of the Southern. More good news: although Galkmeer’s forces had arrived first, they had apparently camped in the low-lying orchards beneath the highlands. Lord North had the higher ground. There had been skirmishing all day as more and more of Galkmeer’s army arrived, but there were as of yet few casualties.

  After a brief rest, Barlow led the Titans farther south. They marched well into the dark, so close now that none wanted to stop. A few hours after dusk it began to rain. Really rain; huge fat drops that became sleeting sheets of rain. The wind howled through the trees and over the hills. The jumbled ground became a pit of mud that boots sank into. And finally, through the rain, they spotted large fires. The wood smoke smelled good, smelled familiar. There must have been leeches aiding those fires, for no wood would burn in this wetness, Barlow thought. They had made it in time for the battle.

  Barlow gave the correct signs and countersigns to the sentries, and they quickly found the bulk of the Titans that had marched from Hairngtown. There was no sign yet of Ambrose; in his place, Houn, a senior officer of the Titans, had led the men. Barlow learned that Houn was currently attending a council of war in the center of camp. Tired, muddy, and aching, Barlow trudged over to the council himself.

  Three caped men walked by him. They were the Ordained, those self-righteous Passion-forners. They thought they were a law all to themselves; all too often, they were right. But these knew their place. One of them recognized him. “That’s Captain Barlow, of the Titan Guard,” he said to his companions.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. Glad you’ve arrived,” said another.

  “Passions be with you,” said the third.

  Barlow saluted them. The Ordained snapped up failed Titans to better improve their own training, but they weren’t too bad. “Perhaps I’ll see you in the battle tomorrow.”

  Not long after, Barlow found the command tent. It was massively large, half as big perhaps as Ghazi’s stone hall and far more crowded. The power of the North, save of course Baardol, was assembled here. Behind the men, a large map of the local area was roped to the tent wall.

  Barlow knew every one of the men there, by reputation if nothing else. Most of the usual men were there; though conspicuous in their absence were the deceased Blackfend and Cadby Ernmund, the Duke’s bastard. Lord Ryndor, a minor lord from lands bordering the south, was missing as well. More treachery? He resolved to find out where Ryndor was as soon as convenient.

  Kerk Brinspaar, Lord Constable of Hairng sat near the head of the table. The man was steadily competent though he lacked excellence in everything he did. It was said that at his birth the Passions had gifted him with every talent save the talent to use any of them. North’s brother, Hroald Ernmund, sat next to Brinspaar. Hroald was a better politician than warrior, but that said more about his competence in the former than any lacking in the latter. The man was accomplished at music, arts, war, and statecraft and quite popular with the ladies as well. He had stolen no less than three of Barlow’s women in the last year. The two weren’t on the friendliest of terms.

  Annoying, but not exactly unexpected. He hoped the younger Ernmund could be civil. Even more, he hoped that he himself could be civil. Everything was as it should be, save for one thing. The only surprise was the man on the other side of Lord North.

  Bryndon Thrand sat next to Lord North, looking nothing like the prisoner he was meant to be. He was, in fact, in a position of honor that many of the Duke’s stalwart allies could have hoped for. It was a pragmatic move, though. If Hairng won this battle and this war, he would need allies. Courting Thrand now would help the reconciliation process when he defeated Galkmeer. If he defeated Galkmeer.

  Lord North noticed him immediately. The Duke looked much better, now that he’d had time to grieve. He, in fact, looked haler than he had for quite some time. War and death suited some men.

  “Captain Barlow, returned to us at last,” Lord North’s voice was rich and deep.

  Henry bowed. His lie was ready; better still, it wasn
’t even a lie. “I heard a rumor that your son was in danger, sire. It proved to be…false.”

  “Commendable,” Lord North said dryly. “What do you know of the forthcoming battle?”

  “Not much,” Barlow admitted. He took a seat at the table next to Houn. The lieutenant shot him a relieved look. “I’ve spent much of my time in the forest and fields recently.”

  “We’ll fill you in on the details later.” Lord North turned to address the host of men inside the tent. “You all know the bad news. We are outnumbered. Significantly outnumbered.” He sounded grim.

  Barlow wondered how bad it could be. Surely the Marchers tilted the balance pretty close back to even.

  Lord North rose, pointing to the crude map.

  “I trust every man in here, but if word of this conversation reaches Galkmeer or his agents, I will personally cut off the ears of any man I even suspect has thought of telling any secrets to our enemies. And then feed them back to him until he chokes.” His eyes were hard. For a moment, there was no doubt that his forefathers had been regal lords over the entire land, north and south. Then he softened. “Though it’s no secret that we face a numerically superior foe.

  “I have brought nearly four thousand spearmen. At the first signs of trouble, I called my levies and I have assembled perhaps an additional thousand of the peasantry. They are unskilled—many virtually unarmed, but they’ll serve as arrow-fodder if nothing else. More importantly, I have brought the two most elite units I have. This battle will see the full power of the Titans and of the Quarrelers.”

  Henry hadn’t known that. There weren’t many Quarrelers, somewhere between half and a full hundred, but they were the best archers in the land. It was said a Quarreler needed only a single arrow to kill a dozen men. As Captain of the Titans, Henry knew the Quarrelers well and while the stories were exaggerated, they weren’t too far from the truth either. The Titans and Quarrelers had too much healthy respect for each other for any true rivalry to exist, though every once in a while fights did occur.

  Barlow saw Lord Randoff, Captain of the Quarrelers now. He was buried amongst the lesser lords and minor leaders. The man smirked at him.

  Barlow stood up. All eyes turned to him. “I have brought with me nearly two thousand Marchers. They are led by Lord Ghazi, who arrives early tomorrow morn with the greater part of his men. I believe that some three hundred are already here. They’re Marchers, so there is no question that they know how to fight.”

  The men inside the tent were impressed, but felt a tinge of fear as well. They had, most of them, learned of Marcher prowess the hard way. And that had been from bands of a dozen or two. Two thousand Marchers was almost more than could be conceived of.

  “Excellent. Barlow, we thank you for that,” Lord North said, keen not to let his assembled men dwell on that number for too long.

  Barlow wondered what those men would say if they knew the Marchers would be living on their doorstep in the future.

  “Our spies have given us detailed information about our enemies, and these numbers have been looked at by our newest ally. Lord Marshall, perhaps you can speak more of these matters?” Lord North continued.

  Bryndon Thrand stood up. He was not an imposing man physically, but his voice was that of a court bard. Deep, resonant, and lilting; when he spoke he became the most charismatic man in the room. “I don’t want anyone to become too discouraged.” Thrand looked around the room. His blue eyes shone. “Even in the South, the valor of the North is not debated. But we are facing an overwhelming force.” He pointed to a block on the map. “Galkmeer has his Gallopers, half-a-hundred of fell horsewarriors. He has levied an additional thousand spearmen. With him, Palne, Lord of Kiln, has perhaps three thousand men. Baardol, should they emerge from their walls, another half-thousand. Mercenaries may be reluctant to accept his gold after what happened to the last group of his.”

  Barlow, like most of the men in there, was adding it up. So far the numbers were close to even. But there was a large omission on the part of Thrand.

  “I know what you’re all thinking.” Thrand smiled sadly. “What of the Earl?”

  Silent, expectant assent filled the room.

  “We guess the Earl of Gaulang has at least ten thousand men, perhaps more,” Thrand said.

  Ordryn’s cunny! Ten thousand men. That was unbelievable. Barlow felt the ground slip out beneath him. The Earl alone could defeat them, never mind the rest of the South. The Southern forces altogether would be almost twenty thousand men. All his work would be for nothing.

  “Not all hope is lost,” Lord North said. The men in tent grew quiet. “We have heard…interesting stories from their camp. They suggest that unity is a problem amongst the assembled Lords. The Earl himself has not been seen for many days.”

  Barlow nodded. That made sense. Galkmeer would have to kill the Earl to have any chance of ruling after the battle. Assuming the South won—though that seemed a safe assumption at this point. If he were the Lord of Kiln, he would be extra careful as well, in the upcoming days. There would be betrayal on their side. There would have to be. What about amongst the Northerners? Would Lord North keep all of Barlow’s promises, and if he didn’t what would Ghazi do?

  Barlow left the council just before moonrise, wondering again what the morning would bring. He thought some more about the possibility of losing. Now that he knew the odds, it seemed inevitable. The idea of serving Galkmeer was galling and unthinkable; the youth was a callow, pretentious pig-forner. But the old Earl or even Thrand would be good, competent men to serve under. For a few years, at least. Until his plans in the north had time to grow.

  The Titans had erected a large canvas tent for him. It was four or five times larger than his travel tent; the size was not entirely unwelcome. Most of it was empty space though there was a padded cot, a makeshift desk with papers and maps, and a large chest for storing his armor. Barlow was tired. His ribs ached and the blood was seeping from the bandage he’d placed over the wound on his wrist. He pushed aside the flaps and headed straight for his cot.

  “The Passions be with you, Henry Barlow,” a soft voice from the shadows spoke.

  It had been a long time since Barlow was startled that completely, and he didn’t even have a chance to try and hide it.

  “I was not expecting guests,” he said at last. He could not see who was talking; the man was hidden in dark shadows. The voice did not sound familiar.

  “No, I imagine you were not,” the voice said dryly. “I imagine you were not.” A hint of amusement perhaps, but bitter amusement.

  Henry sat on his cot. Obviously the man was a Shade. That was good; Henry needed to clear some things up with the Shades. “What brings you here? I assume you have more business? You know what happened to me last time, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so. But I find that none too interesting.”

  Barlow’s eyes were adjusting to the dark. He could see the vague outline of the man now. He seemed to be a small man, not physically imposing.

  “What I do care about is that recently a member of your Titans was caught and killed by our enemies.”

  “That cannot be true, they’re all here—” The truth of it hit him. “Where, exactly, did this happen?”

  “Baardol, of course. Your man Ambrose is dead,” the Shade said.

  Ambrose dead? It seemed impossible. “What about the Hangman? Ambrose could not have failed.”

  “He did fail, and he is dead,” the Shade snapped. “I do not speak of anyone else. Ambrose failed because he underestimated Baardol; their Duke was protected by something we overlooked completely.” The man sounded bitter.

  The cot was soft beneath Barlow and despite himself he yawned. His eyelids grew heavier.

  “Am I boring you, Henry Barlow?” the Shade asked, his question a warning. A warning that Barlow did not care to heed.

  “A little, yes. Maybe if you drew some pictures?”

  “This is not a joke. Ambrose failed because Baardol was protected
by other Shades. ”

  A chill tickled Barlow’s back. But the idea was ludicrous. “Impossible. The Shades are not organized well enough to be able to split.”

  “So we have always thought, Henry Barlow. I suspect you have recently been following orders from the rogue Shades as well.”

  That did make sense. The entire affair with Lord North’s heir had no other explanation. But this was not how Shades operated. This man across from him should not be telling him these things. Barlow had progressed in the Shades by making sure he never knew too much.

  “If that’s true, what solution is there?” Barlow could see the man more clearly now, though he was wrapped in a hooded cloak.

  The man laughed harshly. “There’s good news about that, and bad news.”

  “Yes?”

  “The bad news is that there is no solution, that I can see. This war could change the shape and nature of the Shades forever. Many of us may not survive it.”

  “And the good news?”

  “The good news, Henry Barlow, is really more a silver lining. You won’t have to worry about this impending schism.”

  “That is good news.” Barlow waited for the other foot to drop.

  “Not long after Ambrose died, I received a letter from him. The contents were…interesting I think is the term I want to use. Do you know what was in that letter, Captain Barlow?”

  That letter! Barlow wished Ambrose were still alive so he could kill him again. That stupid man! Barlow’s secret was not meant to be exposed in any event of his death—the man had been a Shade and a solider. There were many ways he could have died. There was no longer any point in being anything other than completely honest. Barlow knew now, as the Shade had all along, that only one man would leave this tent alive.