She was chasing after him again. ‘Are you mocking me?’
‘Not at all. But don’t let your cleverness go to your head. As Lanthorpe pointed out, there will be a mage facing us. A mage duel can be a frightening thing. We can get into each other’s minds, sense our opponent’s moves; he can try and disrupt our attempts to cross the divide and we can do the same with him. As I said earlier, leave him to me.’
Cheris screwed up her brow. ‘If we can sense him so strongly, why can’t I do that on the island? Magic is used there constantly.’
Marcus looked at her knowingly. ‘But you can. You are just never interested enough to focus on it properly. It is nearly always a question of low-level spells cast by initiates there; powerful spells are rarely employed and there are shielded rooms on the upper floor of the college set aside for them. Think of your room in Tanaren City. The first few minutes there I bet you thought: ‘‘My! Listen to all those carts and wagons going past.’’ But I bet after a few hours it barely registered with you. It is still there, but it has become mundane, and so it is with magic on the island. Now, when a single mage close by is drawing a lot of power and wishes to use it to kill you or your allies, then you will most definitely notice it.’
She nodded slowly and changed the subject. ‘So Anaya is coming with us?’
‘Of course, you cannot have your healer some miles behind the battle.’
‘I fear for her. She has seen too much death and suffering. She needs to leave all this behind, at least for a while.’
‘I agree. I can do nothing about the current battle, but when it is done perhaps we can take her back with us. She needs to appreciate the tranquillity of island life again.’
The Knights of the Holy Thorn had partitioned a small room off for them in their pavilion. It had little more than two low camp beds with blankets and a table off which to eat. After a quick meal Cheris fancied a walk around the camp, only to be told by Sir Norton that even here there were restrictions on mages’ movements.
‘But what if I want to use the ladies ... facilities?’
‘Anaya and the nurses have a private tent for such things.’
Thus stymied, Cheris spent the rest of the day reading. Soon her magic would be called upon like never before, so she needed to be prepared. When her brain began to ache and the light of the candles ceased to be effective, she lay down to sleep. It was a hard bed but she was used to it. Marcus had been here and there on business, but eventually he, too, joined her. Her last memory before drifting off was of him turning this way and that, trying to get comfortable on a bed that was too short for him.
The next day, the beginning of the next stage in her journey. she spent the morning helping Anaya to pack her bottles and equipment, fold down some of the beds and load the healer’s wagon. Only a couple of nurses were to be left here with minimal equipment, so the logistics of the move were considerable. By noon it was done, however, and Cheris saw the healer off through the main gate, Anaya sharing her wagon with the nurses and some of the Knights of the Holy Thorn. She was not alone. Many of the soldiers had gone already and some were even now marching just behind Anaya’s wagon on the way to the front. Looking round, much of the camp was stripped bare, with bruised grass and mud showing in areas that had previously been blooming with tents. As she looked round, she saw her own wagon come towards her, driven by Sir Norton this time, as Roland was staying behind. When he got to her he stopped.
‘It is our turn to go now, my Lady. Marcus is already in the back.’
She nodded to him and climbed into the wagon. Together they headed towards the last camp before battle.
This camp was much more like what she had expected of a military encampment. Unlike the calm organisation of the place she had just left, this one was full of chaos and bustle – men armed and armoured chasing this way and that; horses steaming and sweating as squires struggled to control them; carts and wagons carving great ruts through the mud; men shouting, barking, cursing and laughing, and the smells of sweat, leather, smoke from the campfires and mud and wet grass. She had taken the opportunity when they had broken for a meal earlier on to sit up front with Sir Norton. He said little but she was not in much of a conversational mood herself. And now, as he steered the horses to the knights’ tent, she felt a strange sense of what could almost be euphoria. Everyone here knew what was soon about to happen and she could feel the nervous energy and excitement of the men, all poised to bring their inactivity to a close and all with a deadly purpose.
Presently, they stopped at the knights’ tent. Inside it was the same arrangement as before – a space partitioned off with two beds and a table. She sat down with Marcus opposite her. He remarked on the bustle around the place.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you can sense the anticipation in everyone here. It is hard not to get caught up in it all. I never thought people could get so enthusiastic over a battle in which they could get hurt or killed.’
‘I think you are misreading the situation,’ he said. ‘Getting the blood pumping and the aggression flowing is the best way to banish the fear over what is to come. A battlefield is a terrible place – you will see soon enough – and if your nerve breaks when you fight you are practically cutting your own throat. As for us, we cannot have the luxury of a drink or a battle song before the fray. We have to stay controlled and focused and deal with our fear in other ways.’
‘What other ways?’
It may sound arrogant but we have to have faith in our own abilities. Our self-belief can be our strongest weapon. Never think that anything you face is deadlier than you are, because most of the time this is the truth – we are the deadliest weapons of all. We can command nature against our foes. All men have an innate fear of us and it is that we can exploit to our advantage. I will show you this if I can.’
‘Should I stick with the abilities I am most familiar with?’
‘Yes you should – just stay with that which gives you confidence. One thing, though: pay special regard to your skills at nullifying another’s power. Stopping the enemy is just as important as dealing death on your own account.’
Sir Norton came round to see, them holding a large bowl whose contents were steaming.
‘Some potage – vegetable only of course,’ he said, looking at Cheris. ‘Eat your fill, then come and see me. I will take you to the grand pavilion where the barons’ war council will start in an hour or so.’
Cheris started eating the stew but for some reason had trouble swallowing it, although it tasted good. ‘’Lissa help me, I am so nervous.’
‘Nervous as in frightened or excited?’
She looked at him, her grey eyes sparkling. ‘I am not frightened.’
He nodded at her and continued his stew.
The nights were drawing in now and, as a pallid sun lay low in the western sky, Sir Norton took them to the war council. The grand pavilion was easy to find, being the enormous tent at the centre of the camp flying the pennants and flags that represented everybody present, with the blue, grey and white of Tanaren flying above them all. The pavilion was crammed with men standing cheek by jowl and, lit as it was by dozens of braziers and lanterns, it was also pretty hot. She could not see another woman there and in her red robe she felt not a little self-conscious. They stopped at the back of the crowd, from where she could see nothing – a situation she was quite happy with – but then Sir Norton started into the crowd.
‘Make way for the mages.’
To her surprise, everyone immediately stood aside for Marcus and her. She followed the two men through the avenue of bodies until finally they were clear at the head of the room. There, sitting at a table, she recognized Reynard and Dominic, the two knights she had met earlier along with another dozen or so other men, all of differing ages, but all armoured and bearing various insignia. At the centre of the table in a great chair and sporting a breastplate displaying the emblem of a mace was a man of middling years with red rheumy eyes – this, she assumed, was Baron Felmere. T
o her horror, she saw Sir Norton go around the table and indicate two chairs behind it for them to sit on. She followed Marcus as he complied, making sure she sat at the very edge of the table. Sir Norton sat between Marcus and another knight wearing a red-and-white surcoat. They waited for ten minutes or so until everyone was settled and then Baron Felmere spoke.
‘It is good to see you all here. Many of us have worked long and hard trying to assemble an army such as this, one of the largest I have commanded in the last nine years. And, my friends, we are all here for a purpose, for within the week we will be sitting in the baronial manor at Grest looking down at the Whiterush and drinking the finest wine the north has to offer!’
Most of the men cheered at this. It was the sort of thing they wanted to hear. After waiting for the noise to subside, the Baron continued.
‘I am sure we have many doubters here who remember the last time we tried to take the town, how their artillery and their mage had us running backwards in no time. Well, let me assure you that will not be happening again.’
A man in the crowd, bald, middle-aged and with a spade-like beard spoke.
‘There is a larger force here for certain. But scouts tell us that the Arshumans have also swollen their numbers and the difference between us and them will not be that great. How can you be so confident that we will be successful this time?’
‘A good point, Kenvor; you are right of course – they, too, have been reinforcing themselves. But there are two major differences between then and now.’ He stopped and scanned the eyes of the men facing him. ‘The first thing, as you can see, we have two mages to counter their one.’ He indicated Marcus and Cheris and there was a general murmur of approval. ‘I am sure the veterans here recognise Marcus of the Isle of Tears and are well aware of his capabilities. With him is his protégée, a lady called Sherise who Reynard assures me is of equal competence.’
She felt all eyes turn to her; she didn’t really care about the mispronunciation of her name, but however briefly she was the centre of attention and she was not sure she liked it. The Baron spoke again. ‘OK, lads, no leering over the mages; there are other women in camp who would happily accommodate you afterwards. Their job here is to neutralise the mage opposing us. And they have another task...’ He stopped again. ‘Well, written orders will be handed out to you all this evening. The final contingents of men will arrive tomorrow. The day after this we march for Grest.’
‘But what of the artillery in the town?’ The man in red next to Sir Norton spoke. ‘This will be a major difficulty for us to overcome.’
‘Ever the cautious one, Lasgaart,’ laughed the Baron, ‘but I have a plan for that. Grest was never an Arshuman town. Most of our people fled it when the war started but some still remain there. The Arshumans believe they have all switched allegiances but this is not the case. What if I was to say that three days from now when dusk falls the gates will be unlocked? That if we deploy for battle at that time the enemy will be looking at us, not at their own artillery, and that a small force should be able to break into the barely defended town and destroy the catapults and ballistae based there.’ He paused, letting the observers digest this information. The murmuring became a crescendo. Felmere raised his hand for silence. ‘Any questions?’
One man stepped forward.
‘Ostark?’
The man spoke. ‘Two questions. Baron: the first is how can you be sure there is not a double betrayal going on and the gates will remain locked despite the assurances you have been given. The second is: why not capture the catapults and use them against the foe rather than destroy them?’
‘To your first question: well, you can never be wholly certain but I am as certain as it is possible to be. Like you, I have been here long enough to know bullshit when I hear it and the people that have ... come forward have been promised much in return. But you are right, insurance will be required. The men going up the hill will be volunteers only and Marcus the mage should go with them.’ Marcus started at this but let the Baron continue. ‘As for your second question, in order to target the Arshuman deployment, all the artillery would have to be moved substantially, and we will not have the time or manpower up there for that. So what I propose is that they are all burned so that the fire will rattle their troops and give us the attack signal. All this will be in your orders.’
‘May I speak, Baron?’ It was Marcus. The Baron nodded at him. ‘It may be not such a good idea to split the two of us up. My colleague is every bit as capable as I, but this is her first engagement and I was rather hoping to show her the ropes, as it were, rather than plunge her in head first.’
‘I appreciate what you are trying to say, Marcus, but the mission to destroy their artillery is the absolute priority here. The men going there will need all the protection they can get just in case something goes wrong, so as far as I am concerned a mage has to go, and it should be the most experienced. Does your colleague feel this will be a problem.’ He looked directly at Cheris for the first time.
She swallowed. Her throat was dry. ‘No, it will be fine, Baron. Marcus should go with your surprise attack.’
She didn’t hear the next few minutes of the council. It was decided then! Despite Marcus’s reassuring words about looking after her, she would be on her own. The Baron had spoken and she could see he was not going to change his mind. Still, she didn’t feel frightened. Nervous, yes, and her throat was dry and raw in the heat from the braziers and dozens of closely packed bodies, but she was not frightened. In a way, it might even be better for her to be on her own, making her own decisions. She switched back to the council. Felmere was speaking again.
‘Now, as for numbers, I will be providing a thousand foot soldiers, many of them experienced men; Lasgaart here has three hundred, as has Vinoyen. Haslan Falls have sent five hundred, Athkaril two hundred, Barons Maynard, Bruchan and Sowden two hundred between them. The heavy cavalry has Reynard’s Eagle Claw – two hundred strong – with an additional fifty from the Serpent Order. The real bonus is Sir Dominic Hartfield’s fifty Silver Lances. The elite cavalry of Tanaren, their banner alone will make the enemy quail. As for light cavalry, I, Lasgaart and Maynard have rustled up some one hundred between us. They will have spears and short bows and will deploy to protect our flanks. We are looking at some three thousand men here, much more than our usual complement.’
‘How many archers?’ said a voice from the crowd.
‘I have two hundred good men; Wyak of Athkaril has sent a hundred; Lasgaart and the others have supplied a hundred or so between them. That, if my mind is not addled, gives us some four hundred archers and cavalry, plus the two thousand regular troops. The finalised battle deployment you will get on the day of the battle.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully.
‘One other thing. The people of Grest are our people. We want them on our side. When we take the town there is to be no violation of its womenfolk. Failure to comply will be punishable with twenty lashes, no exceptions. Do I make myself clear?’
One of the soldiers spoke up. ‘They would do it to our women. A lot of the troops see it as their right, the spoils of war.’
‘Not any more,’ said Felmere. ‘We need to win minds here. A man whose wife is spoiled by our soldiers will never join our cause. This sort of thing has gone on long enough and I should have stopped it earlier.’ He put his hands behind his head and stretched.
‘And that, my friends, is that. Tomorrow the advance guard will move out, with everyone else following the day after. It is the day after that when Artorus and Mytha will determine our destinies. And remember, we need a nice slow deployment with as much fanfare as possible; we do not want them to focus on anyone but ourselves; they need to be looking at us and not the town or its catapults. Now, unless there are further questions, we can call these proceedings closed.’
Cheris remembered little else of that day; Sir Norton escorted her back to her bed with Marcus joining her a little later. They did not speak, Marcus’ sensing correctly that this wa
s not perhaps the right time. All she could recall afterwards was that before sleep took her she prayed to Elissa, to Lucan and Artorus himself, as well as to all the saints she could remember, for the first time in many years.
The following morning, though, she was on form. Seeing Marcus’ sheepishness she sensed a kill.
‘Any words of comfort for me, O great protector?’
He sighed, expecting no less. ‘I am as happy as you about this; I did not want us split up. The only one with the authority to tell us what to do is the Baron himself and unfortunately he has done just that. I will return to you as soon as I possibly can, I promise.’
‘And how can I trust anything you say anymore?’
He groaned exasperatedly. ‘Don’t be like that, Cheris! How was I to know what was going to happen? If I had known, I would have brought someone else. As I said, I will get to you as soon as I can.’
‘I will probably be dead by then.’
This time he snapped at her. ‘No, you will not. Whoever this mage facing us is I know two things about him. The first is that he is not more talented than you, and the second is that he is certainly not cleverer than you. He may be more experienced and know how to rough you about a bit, but ultimately you will be more than a match for him.’ He left her and went over to talk to Sir Norton.
Cheris watched him go with pursed lips. ‘I hope you are right. As Elissa watches over me, I hope you are right.’
17
It was an opulent room. Its walls were panelled in dark wood and hung with heavy cloth tapestries. The drinking vessels on the richly carved table appeared to be made out of silver. Velvet-clad servants secreted themselves as discreetly as possible into darkened corners. The windows were large and wide and admitted shafts of mid-morning light. Through them could be seen an impressive view, dominated by a waterfall with a drop of some twenty feet, around whose broad circular splash pool were cluttered some low stone houses interspersed with trees. Nearer to the windows, occupying an elevated position on a flat-topped hill, was a house of Artorus with its conical spire built in the same grounds as a house of Xhenafa, a small box-shaped stone building overlooking a cemetery. Both religious houses occupied a sward of level ground between falls and hill and were surrounded by the town’s more humble dwellings. A man clad in a rich green-and-gold surcoat was standing at the window at this moment, mesmerised by the fall of the water into the pool and the cloud of spray that constantly hung over it. It never changed, he thought. How unlike a man could that be? Could it not see how change was dynamic and positive, how it threw the deserving high into the air to stand over the weak, the foolish, the gullible. Some people lived to be led, to feed like a dog on scraps thrown at them from the high table while all the time braying their gratitude at the thrower. He could never live like those people – by Artorus, he was change’s fiercest instrument. The next few months would see to that.
The Forgotten War Page 26
