In the evening, the scouts played cards and told stories beside the fire. As usual, Sandun and Basil were not invited to join. Kagne sat beside Sandun, and they talked about the past. They reminisced about the days they spent pushing a cart up and down the streets of Seopolis.
“So you are a master in the Royal Archives now?” Kagne asked. “How did you end up there?”
“After the night when the temple guards kicked down our door, I headed south,” Sandun answered. “Some money I buried ten miles outside of Seopolis; I dug it up, and then I just kept going. The farther from Seopolis the better, that’s what I thought. There was little chance those fat rule-keepers were going to catch you, and there was nothing I could do to help you if they had.”
“You’re right about that,” said Kagne. “I jumped in the bay and swam north to the pier. Made it to my contact’s warehouse, but I caught a chill. They sent me upriver in one of their boats while I shivered sick for a week.”
“Well, I ended up in southern Kelten, a valley called Sun House,” Sandun continued. “By chance, at the pub I learned from his manservant that Baron Segwaris needed a man who knew his letters but was not part of the temple. The baron was an older lord, and worn down by the wars and the deaths of his two sons.”
Sandun paused and looked at the fire. “To take a long tale and cut it down to size, a year passes and I hear that Pandion’s army of rebellion has crossed the border and there is talk in the pub about joining. Baron Segwaris tells us that while he won’t take a side between Pandion and King Oniktes, he won’t think ill of any man that sides with Pandion. Even in Sun House, we heard tell of the cruel fate of the White Princess, and some of us were moved to risk all.
“Three of us, we left in the night and headed south. No sooner do I arrive at Pandion’s camp when I see they have wrapped the cords wrong on a ballista they have just finished building. I remembered the trick of such things from watching my father at his work.”
“Your father built cranes, if I remember aright,” Kagne said.
“Cranes and other engines for the Earl of Hepedion.”
At this Basil started and looked sharply at Sandun.
“The former Earl of Hepedion. Basil here, well, he showed up the next day. Since I knew something about them, I was put in charge of several ballistas, and Basil became my spotter. He has a knack for reading the wind and distance from miles off. When our ballistas fired, they didn’t miss.”
“And the Royal Archives?” queried Kagne.
“After the battle of Agnefeld, Pandion’s army goes north so he can be crowned king.” Sandun smiled as he thought back on those heady days. “I don’t mind telling you that a very fine time was had by those of us who joined before the battle. Anyway, a month after his coronation, King Pandion asked me if I would like to take a vacancy in the Archives. I knew a little of them thanks to some letters I wrote on behalf of Baron Segwaris, so I said yes. I’ve been there ever since.”
Kagne whistled. “You took quite a risk, joining Pandion’s army. Wasn’t he outnumbered three to one? And to fight against King Oniktes, the victor of a dozen battles? I would have stayed far from that fight and called myself lucky.”
Sandun shrugged. “I was young. And no one—and I mean no one—liked Oniktes. Well, that’s all in the past. Sho’Ash willing, I’ll not see such a battle again.”
They continued northward, and small changes could be seen on the land: fewer trees beside the creeks, and the lakes they saw were, according to Kagne, so shallow that they often disappeared entirely from midsummer until the winter rains. A few of the lakes they passed were surrounded by an unusual gray clay in which nothing could grow. These lakes seemed like mirages, tricks of the desert, unreal, set amid miles of desolate cracked mud flats.
One day, Kagne brought them to a campsite where hot water bubbled out of the ground and then drained into large pools of bath-temperature water. The large pools seemed natural, but Kagne said they had been dug by men a great while ago. All of the men, except the those on guard duty, took off their clothes and waded into the pools after the evening meal. Sandun found it pleasant to rest in the warm but odd-smelling water.
He looked up at the sky and remembered one year when his family traveled north to the famous hot springs of Lemateka, a day’s journey from their home in Hepedion. It was fall, and King Pandion II had arrived with his court when the autumn grape harvest festival had started. By royal decree, the hot pools were opened to everyone. Too young to drink wine, Sandun had jumped into the water and surfaced next to a pretty girl with long, wet, black hair, her linen shift clinging tightly to her body. That was the first time he noticed a girl as a girl: desirable. He chased her, she laughed at him, he splashed her, and she told him her name. The next day, he looked for her at the hot pool and in the festival booths, but he never saw her again. More than twenty years gone, he still remembered her name, Pelema, though her face was now just a blur.
When the guards changed shifts and the two who had been on watch came into the water, Sandun realized for the first time that one of the scouts, Olef, was a woman. As she took off her clothing and slipped into the water, there was simply no question as to her sex. No one else in the pool made any comment, though Kagne stared at her. Apparently, everyone else knew that Olef was a she and not a he. She looked up at Basil and then looked down at the water.
There was nothing that forbade women from joining the army, but while camp followers were plentiful, women warriors were exceedingly rare. Most soldiers considered it bad luck when a woman tried to accompany a military unit if she was armed with anything more than a knife. However, many times he had seen women go to town with the soldiers who were buying or requisitioning supplies. And of course, women followed their men on the march. Most knights had a woman for their tent; earls usually had two.
The day of the battle started like the other days.
The expedition had reached the land called Nukivanu. It was at the far edge of Kelten, an isolated place with little sign of human habitation. According to the old map, they had reached the start of trail east to Serica. But five days spent searching had yielded no results; no sign of any trail had been found. They rode into canyons that ended in steep slopes or rocky walls.
Wild animals were in abundance: lizards scuttled away in the dust, and vultures circled silently over ridgelines. Basil hunted every morning, bringing back deer or small antelopes for them to eat.
At dawn on the sixth day, the air was chill, the skies clear. As the sun warmed the land, clouds slowly built up over the towering mountains to the east.
Before the scouts set forth on their daily search, Kagne returned to the camp from his morning lookout. His countenance spoke unmistakably: worry, fear. “In the night, my sleep was broken and uneasy,” Kagne said. “I have been looking north since dawn. There is a haze growing at the horizon and a sound in the air, like a herd of antelope far off. I fear the worst: riders from Issedon coming south. We should lie low and prepare to fight.”
The scouts looked at Sir Ako. Silently, he looked at Kagne, who stared back at him defiantly. Then Sir Ako nodded. Everyone changed their preparations from scouting to battle. Bows were strung, tested, and then unstrung. All the arrows were brought out and divided among the men. Sir Ako, with Sergeant Torn’s help, put on his armor: lightweight, strong pieces of curved metal that covered his upper body. Sergeant Torn wore a thick brigandine coat that covered his arms and hung down to his thighs. The others put on sleeveless jacks and light helms over their leather.
Kagne lay down on a rocky outcropping above the campsite looking west, scanning the plains below. Sandun went to his side and passed him the farseer glass. The only sound Sandun could hear was the buzzing from grasshoppers and the rare bird call.
On previous days as they’d headed north, Kagne had detailed the typical Issedonian raid: half a dozen groups of twenty-five to fifty men each, mostly mounted, alw
ays sending pairs of men between each group throughout the day to exchange information.
“They don’t gallop and rarely trot. Instead, they canter steadily, saving their strength, and keep to hard, rocky land to minimize dust,” Kagne explained. “They concentrate with speed once a target is found. At first, there are a few men; within an hour, one hundred; and within four hours, their whole force. It’s like they appear out of the ground. Flight is unwise—they pick off stragglers with arrows from afar. They mostly scout all around a village before making an attack, and they leave scouts posted throughout the battle to warn of any approaching Kelten forces. Our best hope is concealment. If we spend the effort to hide by sun and by moon, they may go past us, unknowing. That is, if they aren’t looking for us.”
When questioned about what they should do if spotted, he recommended defending and not running into the hills. “Never run into land you do not know. Better to fight on ground of your own choosing.” The other scouts nodded their heads in agreement.
Kagne continued, “Running up the hills tires you out more than you expect, and the air is curiously thin in Erimasran. Also, running uphill—it leaves you exposed to accurate, long-range shots. A man going uphill moves slowly and predictably. It’s the same as hunting deer. A deer in the bush is cloaked with leaves and branches; the deer that runs up the ridgeline is an easy mark.
“Lastly, running increases your fear and lifts your enemy’s spirits. We have stories in my village of settlements where the men broke and ran, seeking to escape, and most were killed by the raiders, even when the village warriors outnumbered the raiders. We have other tales of when villages held firm, and it was the Issedonians who gave up, sometimes at the mere rumor of the Kelten cavalry riding north. When they turn north, the Issedonians retreat in haste, and those who cannot ride or cannot run are left behind. Slow raiders never return to their homeland.”
No one questioned Kagne’s warning. In the days since he had joined them, it had become obvious that he knew the land as well as any of the scouts knew the border of Fiodroch. So the men cautiously walked about the valley where they were camped, seeking to fix the layout of the land in their minds: the rocks and ravines, trees and bushes. The mules were led into the riverbed and firmly tethered to the strongest trees that grew near the water. Hidden from view, they munched happily on tender leaves. As before, Maklin guarded them, axe in hand, a shield on his left arm.
The plan, if they were discovered, was for Sir Ako and Sergeant Torn to draw attention in the middle of the clearing. Everyone else was to hide in two groups, one on either side of the valley. They hoped the raiders would attack immediately and not wait for the whole force to gather, thinking a lone knight and his squire would be easy prey. The archers would shoot first the horses and then the raiders. With luck, none would escape to warn the other groups.
By noon, with the sun beating down, the heat made it difficult to see far, but a strange, faint rumbling sound could be heard by all. It was not thunder, but Sandun could not have guessed what made the noise.
“They are coming,” Kagne said simply.
Everyone took their places. The scouts followed their own practice and covered their faces with mud. They stuck twigs into their belts and baldrics. Sandun, Basil, and four scouts were on the south side of the camp; Kagne and the other scouts could not be seen amid the rocks and hard shadows on the northern slope.
Again, the waiting. Sandun’s mind filled with thoughts and inner debates. Was it coincidence that the Issedonian raiders had come? Was this just a raid to steal livestock, or were they looking for the expedition? If two hundred or more Issedonian raiders found them, death was all but certain.
Sir Ako and Sergeant Torn were both sitting in the shade, sharpening all the weapons they carried: swords, daggers, hatchets, even the mace spikes were touched up. No one said anything. Sandun thought about burying his notes under a rock. Too late for that now. Must concentrate. He practiced archery in his mind, thinking about the lessons Basil had been giving him.
Now Sandun could see dust and hear the sound of trotting horses. A small group of men, more than twenty and less than thirty, came up into the valley. This was the first time Sandun had seen the savage eastern Issedonians. They were all bearded, and they were covered in dirt, perhaps deliberately. Their clothing appeared to be a mix of cow leather and deerskin. Most had short bows, though he saw two with very long bows.
Almost immediately, they spotted the camp. Their leader rode forward; he had a tall helmet decorated with two long, curling ram’s horns.
Sir Ako put on his helm and took up his sword and shield. Sergeant Torn, similarly armed, took position just a little behind him.
The Issedonian leader spoke. Sandun had heard the language before; many ships from Issedon sailed down the coast to trade at Seopolis. With difficulty, he could understand what the man was saying.
“A knight in armor, at the edge of the Tirala Mountains. Explain yourself.”
Sir Ako raised his visor and responded with the foulest oaths Sandun had ever heard; a growing fury was in his voice as he slapped his sword against his shield. Insulted and enraged, the Issedonian drew his sword, lifting it up to the sky. And then he let out a great cry of pain as an arrow pierced under his upraised arm and into his chest. He toppled from his horse and fell to the stony ground with a thud like a slab of meat dropped onto a kitchen floor.
All the other hidden archers fired their bows, and nearly every arrow found its mark. Horses reared and cried in pain and terror as arrows struck their bodies. Sir Ako and Sergeant Torn yelled, “For Kelten!” and charged into the suddenly chaotic mess. The surprise was total.
“No quarter!” bellowed Sir Ako as he hewed down men who had fallen off their horses and were struggling to switch from bows to their shortswords or daggers. Two horsemen at the rear suddenly turned and galloped away. An arrow hit one horse in the haunch, but it kept going. Sergeant Torn, with savage efficiency, slammed raiders to the ground with his shield and then bashed their heads in with his mace, which was soon covered in blood and gore.
Abruptly, the fighting was over. A few moaning Issedonians were quickly silenced with expert dagger thrusts into their eyes, and that was all. Two horses remained unharmed, most were dead, and a few had galloped off—riderless—into the plains. The ground with covered with blood and offal.
The men all gathered together at the scene of the fighting. No one was injured. “More will come,” Kagne said grimly. The mules, smelling blood, were braying and pulling at their traces. Sergeant Torn had some men drag the bodies off into a pile beside a large boulder north of the camp. Everyone drank water and gathered unbroken arrows. They threw most of the Issedonian weapons and the few pieces of armor into the stream bed.
Sir Ako gathered Kagne and Torn to plot the next fight. “What will the next group be like?”
“They don’t know our numbers,” Kagne replied. “The two cowards that fled will spend hours seeking more of their allies. They will tell a tale of how they were defeated by a sudden attack of thirty or more archers hiding in the rocks.” He smiled grimly at the other scouts. “If they are searching for the Archive Expedition, then they may gather a hundred men before coming back. I doubt that all will gather to attack us, for fear they are missing the real expedition as opposed to an unknown diversion.” Kagne continued, “When they come, I think they will spread out, form a line, try to drive us off the hillsides and down into the valley, which will then become a killing field.”
“We could go into these hills, defend that hilltop for example.” Sir Ako pointed to a rounded hill about two miles northeast with a commanding view over the plains below.
“I don’t like that. The hilltops here are mostly barren, without trees or bushes. Even the rocks are small up top. With no protection, we could be showered with arrows while the Issedonians are hidden behind good cover from below. After several hours, with all of us injured a
nd some killed, they would charge, and the end would be certain.”
“What if we keep going in the mountains?”
“If we move fast, we leave tracks clear enough to be followed. If we move slowly, we don’t have enough of a head start to lose them. We cannot go faster than the raiders. They catch up when we are tired, lost, and on ground that none of us knows. Again, the ending is certain.” Kagne’s words painted a picture the others could easily see in their minds.
“So, we are dead men?”
“Maybe not. If the raiders are looking for us, that means they are not attacking the villages. My people will not sit idly while Issedonian raiders head south. Swift messages will be sent to Sirosfeld, and likely they were sent days ago when the raiders first crossed the border. So we can expect the Kelten cavalry to arrive sometime. Further, the villages will send out hunting parties of their own to find out what the raiders are doing and where they are going. The land may seem empty of friends, but they are out there, and in numbers.”
Sir Ako came to a decision. “Another surprise, then. We shift north, hiding our supplies among the rocks here. We leave the noisy mules where they are. We concentrate, hidden in the next valley. If the raiders haven’t found us by nightfall, we move into the plains west. With Sho’Ash guiding us, we attack them from the rear.” Sir Ako outlined his plan with broad sweeps of his arms. Everyone gathered around him and muttered agreement.
“A bold plan, Sir Ako.” Kagne pulled at his mustache, considering the idea. “I would not expect it. They will not expect it.”
“After the fight, if any of us are alive, return here to the camp,” Sir Ako commanded.
Four hours later, as the sun was gleaming red against the horizon, a large line of riders appeared in the plains heading toward them. The expedition was two miles north of the camp that morning, strung out along another ridge, hidden amid the manzanita and deer brush. Thunder had been booming faintly in the afternoon, and the barest hint of rain was in the air, a few drops blown far from the taller hills. Riders were approaching from the southwest, heading for the battle site.
The Burning Tower Page 8
