by W. C. Conner
Caron saw what I refused to see, though it was right before my eyes, he thought. Still, I wonder if there would have been anything I could have done to prevent this, even had I listened to my wife and daughter. He watched as his field officers directed their troops into position before the massive fortress. By the powers, how do I attack this monstrosity?
Shortly after first light the next morning, Gleneagle learned it would not be necessary to attack the fortress when horns sounded from atop the walls of Blackstone and the front gates swung slowly open. There was a moment as of time standing still while men and animals looked in the direction of the fortress. The moment was shattered by the heavy booming of great drums beating a marching cadence for the army that issued from the gates.
From their positions, the army drawn up before Blackstone could not see individual faces of the warriors marching from the gates, but there was a sense of something foul and unhealthy about them. Nervous eyes looked to other nervous eyes, and men muttered together. Gleneagle stood before his tent on a low hill toward the rear, sensing the malaise and recognizing its cause as he watched the scene unfolding before him. Leaping to his horse, he grabbed the standard of his house from the bearer standing near and galloped toward the front of his lines.
With the standard and reins in his left hand and his sword raised high to catch the light in his right, he shouted as he rode, “These will die as any others. They carry a spell upon them to break the spirit and the will. It is not real! It is illusion! To arms! To horse! Prepare! The enemy is at hand.” He flew back and forth at the front of the lines, rallying the spirits of his men who cheered him as he rode and clashed their swords and spears on shields or breastplates, making a rhythm of their own in counterpoint to the dreadful booming of the drums in the fortress.
Turning before them, his horse reared as Gleneagle exhorted, “Do not let them form ranks. The time is now!” With that, he spurred his mount toward the emerging enemy, his cavalry troops pressing forward to join him. With a great shout, all the rest broke from where they stood and surged forward in a concerted rush at their enemies.
Less than one mile to the rear, Roland held up his hand to halt the column snaking through the shallow valley behind him and Morgan rode forward. Roland looked to him as he rode up. “I hear the drums, my lord,” Morgan said grimly. “I fear the battle is begun but I counsel prudence. Should we push too hard we will arrive too exhausted to fight.”
Roland nodded and turned to one of his lieutenants. “Tell the men they must be prepared to fight the moment we arrive but that we will not increase our present pace.”
He looked around as Caron and Mitchal cantered up, followed closely by Tingle and Thisbe. It was Caron who spoke. “With your approval, we will ride ahead to let my father know that your army is close behind and will arrive within the hour.”
Roland nodded and the four of them spurred their horses and galloped off toward the sound of the drums. Morgan watched with pride as his beautiful daughter, her black hair streaming out behind her in the wind, rode into danger with the light of excitement and adventure in her eyes. Perhaps it’s best she grew up as she did, he thought. There is a woman worth the reckoning. Then, shaking his head to clear the memories, he turned his attention back to Roland whose own thought was focused on the other woman riding away from them.
“Take two men and ride ahead to scout a likely attack route.” Roland said without turning his gaze away from Caron as she rode. “We will assume our attack formation as soon as our way is clear to do so.”
Morgan summoned two men who broke from the formation to join him as he spurred his horse toward the sounds of battle. Watching him go, Roland raised his hand and the column resumed its march toward Blackstone.
Caron and her companions rode hard and arrived at the rear pickets within a short time. As they saw the approaching riders, the soldiers formed a line across the road and set their pikes in challenge. The sergeant in charge of the detail stood in the center of the road before the living barricade, his hands on his hips, and waited until the riders had reined to a stop before them. His eyes swept the group, coming to rest on Caron.
“Your Highness,” he exclaimed, bowing deeply.
“My father, sergeant,” she urged. “Is he at the command post?”
“He leads the battle, Highness,” the man replied. “The enemy issued from the fortress not long after the rising of the sun, sending fear and doubt before them. The Prince himself rode to the front carrying the standard of Gleneagle and restoring the courage of his army in defiance of evil magics. It was his bravery that led them to a savage counterattack. They fight even now, Highness.”
“His command tent?” she asked.
“At the crest of the rise,” the sergeant responded, pointing to where it stood. “Its standard rides with your father, but you will know it by the generals who remained behind.”
With a word of thanks, Caron and her companions spurred their mounts and galloped past the pickets who had already fallen back as she talked with their sergeant.
Young grooms met them as they curbed their horses to skidding stops, taking the reins as they leaped from their saddles. Caron had already seen two of the generals standing together before the tent, deep in conversation.
“How in the name of the all the hells of the other side was he able to raise such an enormous army?” the older one wondered aloud. His heavy moustache quivered as he talked.
“I had heard rumors of the movement of brigands from across the narrow sea, Kolburn,” the younger one said. “I discounted them because we had heard nothing from Beramor, and his people are always on the alert for the movement of brigands from that direction.”
“These are no brigands, Galwan,” the older one said, “these are mercenaries, and it’s a large army. It’s far more likely these are barbarians from north of the Korvath Mountains. If they are from there, we are up against a formidable force indeed, for they are infamous for their ferociousness and lack of mercy.”
They turned with annoyance at the interruption as Caron and Mitchal rushed toward them, then realized who it was that approached and bowed their heads.
“Highness,” General Kolburn said, brusquely. “Your father leads at the head of the army. I fear you’ll not see him for some little time yet, if ever.”
“I learned of his position from the pickets, Kolburn,” she said, dispensing with formalities. “How goes the battle now?”
“It is evenly fought as we speak, Highness,” offered General Galwan, his attitude notably more encouraging than Kolburn’s, “but it is too close. It seems there are many more of them than one would expect inside a keep – even one as large as Blackstone. They fight like animals and are dangerously difficult to bring down.”
Caron’s eyes had been sweeping the battlefield before them as Galwan spoke and found the Gleneagle standard at the forefront of the fighting. The prince no longer carried it, but she could discern his snow white hair atop his horse of the same color as he hacked and hewed, rallied and exhorted. As she watched, her heart swelled with love and fear and fierce pride in the strength she had always known lay within him.
Not removing her eyes from her father, she spoke. “Help is at hand, Galwan,” she said. “The Duke of Confirth’s army is less than half an hour behind me.”
“Confirth?” shouted Kolburn. “Highness, the man is a traitor. A messenger sent by Tingle arrived shortly before we marched telling of his treachery.” His walrus mustache quivered as he spoke. “Berlayne deserves a traitor’s death.”
Caron’s eyes took on a distant look. “Berlayne died a traitor’s death, general,” she said. “Roland now sits upon the ducal seat. It is he who follows leading near five thousand armed men to our aid. He is aware of the battle and will arrive prepared to fight.”
Galwan rubbed his hands together in delight, but his brows shortly drew down in a frown and his hands stopped in mid-movement. “The prince does not know, Highness,” he said. “He will think Confirth
is attacking from his flank or from the rear.”
As he spoke, Mitchal strode quickly over and took the reins from the groom patiently holding his horse as it grazed at the short grass. Leaping into the saddle, he set spur causing his horse to rear.
“Your father will know the truth before I return, Highness,” he called as the powerful horse gathered itself and shot off toward the center of the field where Gleneagle could yet be seen flying from battle to battle.
Morgan met Roland as the lead elements of the army came within view of the battle. “The situation is unsettled, lord,” he said. “The Prince himself leads at the forefront of the battle and it is he who prevents the battle from going ill.” Roland nodded as he strained his eyes from this distance to make out any details.
“I had a thought as I surveyed the logistics,” Morgan continued, looking grim. “Gleneagle will not know us as allies if Tingle’s messenger did, indeed, get through to him. And since he is at the forefront of the battle, Caron will not have been able to advise him that your army is allied with him and not Greyleige.”
“Your suggestion?” Roland asked.
“We will turn here and move deep to the left side of the battle. Our approach will flank the enemy who will think we are joining them. Gleneagle will no doubt be alarmed at our appearance, but our position as we approach won’t immediately threaten him nor will his position threaten us.”
Roland smiled broadly. “I did exceedingly well in my first appointment,” he said. “Lead on, General Morgan.”
As Gleneagle wheeled his mount and started back toward the left side of his lines, his attention was arrested by activity near the enemy’s flank. At the far left side of his troops, he could see the movement of an army, apparently converging with the enemy standing firmly before Blackstone’s walls. With his keen eyesight he could see at their forefront the colors of the House of Confirth. As he recognized the Confirth colors, a great shout went up from the fell defenders before the walls of the fortress for they believed the thousands of soldiers marching under the Confirth banner were allies that would help them crush Gleneagle’s army.
At the same instant, from the rear of his own lines, a commotion erupted as a warrior spurred his mount recklessly through the battles that were being fought upon every side. Standing in his stirrups, he recognized Mitchal, flailing and hacking his way toward him, unarmored except for his great sword which he swung ferociously from side to side as he rode. A shiver of anticipation went through Gleneagle; Mitchal’s presence meant that Caron must also be near. He smiled for the first time that day as Mitchal trotted up to him.
“Your appearance is a delight to me for it means my daughter is undoubtedly near,” the prince yelled over the sounds of the battle, “but I fear we must fall back. Confirth’s army will shortly join with Greyleige’s and we will be overmatched of a certainty.”
“Confirth stands with you, Highness,” Mitchal called back. “Berlayne is dead of his own treachery. Roland is Duke in Confirth now, and I would guess from their position that his army is most likely about to fall on your enemy from the flank.”
Gleneagle smiled fiercely and wheeled his tiring but still willing mount. “Return to my daughter, Mitchal,” he cried. “See she comes to no harm and I will join you in the command tent before the day is done.” And upon those words he galloped back to the right side of his force, drawing a large troop of his cavalry with him to gain position for a flanking attack on the right to match the one soon to be launched by Roland from the left.
Unnoticed in the flurry of interest, Thisbe and Tingle stood off to the side watching in wonder and horror, neither of them having ever faced the reality of war. The two of them ended up leaning against one another in search of strength and spiritual support against the wholesale violence of the grisly battle below. Tingle’s arm unconsciously circled Thisbe’s shoulder in a protective embrace and she pressed closer to him as he reflexively drew her tighter to him. Neither was conscious of what the other did, feeling only the need for closeness and comfort. As Mitchal clattered to a halt at the command post, a trance seemed to break and they separated with no conscious awareness of the closeness they had shared.
“He knows, Highness,” Mitchal reported, breathing heavily after the fighting and hard ride.
“I can see that, my brave guardsman,” Caron replied, smiling warmly at him, “and I can see also that you are wounded and unaware of it. Your wounds aren’t serious, but you must have them looked after to ensure they don’t fester.” General Galwan had observed Mitchal’s wounds as he rode up and had already called an orderly forward, instructing him to lead Caron’s guardsman to the medical tent.
A great shout erupted from the battlefield as Mitchal started to walk away and he stopped to turn toward the uproar. Roland’s army, which had been marching resolutely toward Gleneagle’s forces, had suddenly and decisively wheeled upon its flank toward Greyleige’s troops and, like a moving wall of spears, swords and arrows, was quickly driving the enemy back toward the fortress’s great gate. At the same moment, Gleneagle’s cavalry had pounced upon the enemy’s right flank, and the infantry and archers in the middle had assaulted the center of the defenders as they began to fall back toward the gate. The enemy caught at the back of the rush to get to the gates fell before the savage assault until the allied armies of Gleneagle, Altamont and Confirth could get no closer without suffering heavy casualties from the defenders upon the walls.
As the allied armies set themselves before Blackstone, safely beyond reach of bow or ballista, Gleneagle finally made his way slowly up the hill to his command post. He leaned forward and slid wearily from the saddle with his arms about the horse’s neck to help support his stiff legs as they met the ground. He patted the horse’s heavily lathered neck in thanks of a job nobly done before releasing him as a groom took up the reins and led the exhausted mount away. An orderly on either side steadied him as he took his first steps off the horse in several hours and walked over to where the others waited.
Caron had moved toward him as soon as he was off his horse. As they met, she placed her arms softly around his shoulders and buried her face in his neck. He wrapped his arms gently around her and stood still as her body shook with the silent tears of relief he could feel against his skin. “I am weary, daughter,” he said softly into her ear, “but I need to walk the stiffness out of my legs after all that time in the saddle.” Turning her away from the others that they need not witness her tears, they walked away from the field of battle, his arm still about her shoulder.
“You are unharmed?” he asked at length.
“I am unharmed,” she replied, “and you?”
“Unharmed and weary beyond belief, but most happy to find you here. And happy to find you have brought Confirth with you as an ally. How was this accomplished?”
“Oh, father, so much has happened since we last saw one another,” she said. “I almost don’t know where to start.” So she started at the moment they had parted, and they walked and talked until eventually they sat in the gloaming, eating a simple soldier’s meal as Caron finally ended and fell silent as they stared into the flames of the fire burning before them.
The prince’s eyes finally closed, but whether in thought or sleep Caron could not tell.
“Do you love him, then?” Gleneagle said quietly without opening his eyes.
“What? Who? Do you mean Roland?” she asked, genuinely bewildered.
“No, my dear daughter,” her father said gently. “I mean this wizard, Wilton.”
“Wil?” she said, almost as if to herself. “Oh no. No, he’s just been my project since, well, since before I even knew he was a he or what his name was.” A thoughtful look crossed her face. “I feel as if I have been constructing him for over two years and my construction finally has legs and a voice and a mind. And it has a goal. And I have chased it and dreamed of it and done things I never would have thought I could do to make him happen. And he turned out even better than I had dreamed.” There w
as a long moment of silence. “And now our moment is almost at hand.”
She reached out, took her father’s hand in her own and placed the back of it against her cheek. “I was so frightened for you today, daddy,” she whispered, “and so proud.”
32
By the second day following the arrival of Roland’s reinforcements there had been no further challenges from the fortress of Blackstone, a development that was making Gleneagle’s leadership nervous. The only bright spot in those two days had come when old Duke Beramor himself arrived in the morning leading nine hundred battle seasoned troops. He had left a cadre of his most senior troops behind with his less experienced regulars to guard the trading routes and the southern coast.
As Roland and Morgan arrived in the area before the command tent where the dukes of Beramor and Altamont were meeting with Gleneagle, Caron was summing up her feelings in a way she had done once before, if only to herself.
“I’d rather have this enemy out in the open where we can at least guess what it’s about than have it quiet as it is now,” she said. “This quiet makes me nervous.”
“Aye, Highness,” Morgan agreed. “Tis the knife of the enemy you don’t see that ends up in your back,”
“We are agreed on that at the least,” the Prince said, turning to acknowledge the arrival of the two. “In the absence of any further movement from them we will continue to prepare an assault on the fortress.”
As he finished, the sound of drums started once again from deep inside Blackstone. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! So loud and deeply pitched were the sounds that all who stood looking toward Blackstone could feel their insides reverberating with every beat. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! It was a slow and deliberate beat; many times deeper, louder, and more pervasive than had been the drums on that first day. It was a sound that was filled with foreboding.
