by K. C. Julius
Leaving Latour and his party waiting outside the palace’s tall gilded doors, the two monks plodded slowly into the palace, without any promise as to when they might return. Borne, seeing a look of impatience cross the marechal’s face, decided he was glad he wasn’t Rapett.
Fortunately, they weren’t kept cooling their heels for long. When the doors reopened, a stream of heralds emerged and blew a fanfare, then ushered the visitors through a long, vaulted hall hung with chandeliers and lined with tall mirrors that reflected the light in glowing pools. Borne counted thirty pilasters crowned with gold that served as buttresses, and the expansive arched ceiling was adorned with paintings depicting Gral’s glory days.
They were escorted into a smaller but equally opulent chamber at the hall’s end, where Comte Rapett received them in what appeared to be his dressing gown, a silver robe edged with squirrel and loosely tied with a golden cord. Although no longer in the bloom of youth, Rapett had the look of a soldier about him, which Borne took as an encouraging sign. His steel-shot hair was tied back from the long planes of his face, and he moved forward to greet them with athletic grace.
Once his guests were seated, the comte invited them to partake of a fine Calhora wine, accompanied by delicate crescents of freshly baked bread and buttery cheese. But though some of the marechal’s men gladly partook of both food and drink, Latour himself ignored the refreshments and got straight to the point.
“We need a force of men from Viscay to return with us at once to L’Asedies. Du Mulay is our last real obstacle to peace, and with these reinforcements, I believe we can at last put an end to the stranglehold the renegade knights have on Gral.”
The comte’s smile was one of regret. “I appreciate the great work you and your men are doing, Marechal, and hope you succeed in defeated Du Mulay. But here at Viscay, we’ve managed until now to avoid any encounters with these scoundrels, and it is my intention that we shall remain neutral in this affair. You will understand that, before all else, I must think of my people. Who will succor them should this action of yours fail and the knights under Du Mulay prove the victors? If I give you men, he will surely seek revenge upon us.”
“Which could just as easily be the outcome should you refuse us,” Latour countered. “Should we fail, there is nothing to prevent Du Mulay from laying siege to Viscay.”
Rapett laced his elegant fingers together. “We have succeeded in discouraging him from this course of action in the past.”
Which meant, Borne felt certain, that Du Mulay’s knights had been paid off.
Latour was not easily rebuffed. “That was when Du Mulay knew that we were on his trail. He couldn’t discount the possibility that you would send out a force against him while we closed in on his rearguard.” The marechal’s mouth formed a grim line, and though his voice remained quiet, he was every inch the fearsome commander. “We have a clear indication that he intends to engage with King Crenel’s forces now encamped at L’Asedies. You yourself are well aware of the size of the army Du Mulay has amassed. Your king has need of you now, Comte Rapett, and will reward you handsomely for this service to Gral.”
The comte laughed, the lift of his shoulders implying doubt. “Do you really think so, Marechal? I don’t share the same level of confidence in my cousin. It’s my understanding that Crenel has drained the royal coffers in his thwarted attempts to drive the Helgrins from our shores. Now he reaps the repercussions.”
Latour’s eyes narrowed. “You should guard your tongue, Comte Rapett. No one shall speak ill of our sovereign in my presence.”
The two men eyed each other across the table, the air between them dense with tension.
Rapett was the first to look away. “I see that you are determined to involve me,” he said. “If so, then of course I must abide by the wishes of my king.” He lifted his goblet, a rueful smile on his face. “Let us drink, gentlemen, to a swift victory… else Priscinae have mercy on our souls.”
* * *
“I don’t trust him,” Balmon said, when the adjunct and Borne reconvened in private with the marechal. While Borne and Balmon had snatched a few hours’ sleep, the marechal had been debating strategy with Ser Valeik, commander of Viscay’s force. From Valeik, Latour had received the welcome news that Du Mulay’s horde had diverted inland to scavenge, which meant they were not yet en route to L’Asedies.
“Rapett has given his word to serve Gral’s best interests,” Latour replied.
Privately, Borne shared Balmon’s misgivings. The comte was clearly hesitant to commit his men, and it wasn’t ties of kinship or fealty to his king that had prodded him into agreeing to Latour’s demands. Rapett knew, as did they all, that if he failed to send the force the marechal required, and if Latour nevertheless defeated Du Mulay decisively, the comte would lose everything, including his life. Refusing to obey the mandate of the king’s marechal was an act of treason. This threat alone had extracted from Comte Rapett the promise of two hundred horsemen and four hundred foot.
As Balmon and Latour discussed this turn of events, Borne gazed down from the narrow window at a flurry of activity in the courtyard below. Horses were being led out, and squires trundled after them bent under the weight of their lords’ arms. A number of silver-cloaked monks milled among them.
“Marechal,” Borne said slowly, “I’ve just had an idea. One that may increase the odds of our success against the renegades.”
Latour turned a speculative gaze on Borne. “I’m listening, shepherd.”
* * *
After Latour and his men had departed Viscay, Borne, who had lingered behind, set off in search of the monk with the dangling legs. Eventually he located Fra Tumas in the deserted stables. Borne greeted him cordially, then delivered a powerful fist to the monk’s temple that knocked him out cold before the man could make use of his rested vocal cords. Borne relieved the monk of his silver habit, left him trussed in a haystack, and slipped into the bustling courtyard, cloaked in his purloined disguise.
So it was that when Rapett’s force got underway, Borne was with them, his silver cowl pulled low as he bounced along on his burro. The monks led the ceremonial exit through the city gates, and he was the last in a line of his brethren, riding just ahead of the Viscay soldiers. Naturally he observed the silence to which Fra Tumas had been sworn, but he kept his ears attuned to the fervent conversation between Ser Valeik and his second, who was riding at the commander’s side.
“We’re to stand off,” Ser Valeik seethed, his frustration clear. “We’re not to engage until it’s clear that Latour’s force will triumph. And if it goes badly for the marechal, we’re to abandon him and ride hard for Viscay. For certain I’ll have my hands full just keeping the men back—they’re burning for a fight. Their lands have been scourged by that lawless pack of curs.”
“I know it’s a bitter draught to swallow, my lord,” said his adjunct, “but don’t forget that Rapett’s pleas to the king for support have come to naught. In these lawless times, it seems every man must be responsible for his own survival.”
“I happen to think our survival may reside in the hands of Latour,” retorted Ser Valeik. “Let’s hope he emerges the victor.”
* * *
As the comte’s men approached the outskirts of L’Asedies, a distant blare of trumpets signaled the armies had already met. Calling a halt, Ser Valeik sent three scouts west to higher ground to covertly assess the opposing side’s ranks. Borne boldly struck out after them, half expecting to feel an arrow between his shoulders at any moment. But none came, and no one called him back. Indeed, after exchanging a surprised glance, the scouts seemed to find the silent monk’s presence reassuring.
They rode parallel to the tumult of the fighting. When they came to a ridge, they left their mounts and crept forward to take the lay of the land. From this vantage point, they could see the outlawed knights and the king’s host facing off, Latour’s red-plumed hel
met visible to all. The renegades had the advantage, for although their backs were to the river, the terrain dipped before them, which would force the loyalists into an uphill charge. Du Mulay had also gathered a vanguard of infantry. Borne remembered that this was the land of Du Mulay’s birth—most likely he had recruited the foot soldiers from his own fief.
An exchange of crossbow fire had already begun, but was having minimal effect due to an insufficient number of archers and too much distance between the opposing forces.
And then came the signal to charge.
Du Mulay’s men streamed down over the rutted field and were met by the shield wall of Latour’s infantry. The loyalist archers were having more success now, but so were those of the renegades advancing behind the men on foot.
As Borne and the scouts watched from the hillside, it appeared at first that the loyalists’ wall would hold firm. But then a shower of spears from the enemy arched over their shields, finding fatal marks in the men of the third and fourth ranks.
Du Mulay’s force, seizing the advantage, rushed forward behind their own combined shields to drive the loyalist army back over their dead. The two walls clashed with a reverberation that drowned out all other sounds of battle.
It was Latour’s shield wall that cracked first. Du Mulay’s knights poured through the resulting fissure, hacking away at the king’s men behind the broken barricade. A bloody melee ensued, and the loyalist troops slowly but surely gave ground toward their reserve shield wall at their backs.
For once, it seemed Latour had underestimated the size of the opposing army. His men were fighting hard, but as the swords, pikes, and halberds rose and fell, the majority of the vanquished wore red and gold, and Du Mulay’s men continued to gain ground.
The marechal was headed for defeat.
Valeik’s scouts, no doubt having come to the same conclusion, began to inch back from the ridge. Borne knew he would have to act swiftly.
“Give me your horn,” he ordered one of the bigger men, who dutifully surrendered it. “You two,” Borne continued, as he slipped the horn’s cord over his head, “will stay to observe the course of the battle.” Ignoring their startled expressions, he turned toward the third knight. “You shall ride with me to inform Ser Valeik that it appears the marechal will be defeated. I’ll sound the horn to call you both back once this is confirmed. I speak the will of the Mother,” he added before any of them could argue, “for whom I am a humble conduit.”
For a moment, Borne wondered if they’d refuse, and was greatly relieved when the third knight started down toward the horses and, after a moment’s hesitation, the other two edged back up the rise.
Now Borne had only one of the scouts to deal with. They remounted and headed back toward Valeik and his waiting army. But as soon as they were out of sight of the ridge, Borne called for a halt.
Frowning, the knight reined in. “What is it, Fra…?”
“Fra Tumas.” Borne slid from his burro. “I need to relieve myself. You can water our animals at the stream just there.” He pointed vaguely to a small stand of trees.
As he pretended to fumble with his robes, Borne heard his companion drop to the ground. Borne wheeled toward him, sidestepping just in time as the knight lunged past, flailing his sword.
The man spun around and angled the tip of his sword at Borne’s face. “I know Fra Tumas,” he growled.
Borne, who had no weapon of his own, retreated a step.
“Before I kill you,” the Gralian said sternly, “you will tell me for whom you are spying, although I think I can guess. You’re Du Mulay’s man. Do you deny it?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Borne saw that the knight’s courser had ambled off to graze. His own burro remained close at hand. He lunged toward it, then dropped into a crouch as the swish of the blade passed over his head.
He scrapped up two fistfuls of dirt, sprang up, and flung them in his attacker’s face. While the man coughed and clawed at his eyes, Borne threw himself onto the burro’s back and kicked it toward the courser. He made a snatch for the horse’s reins, but the warhorse shied away as he surged past.
Cursing, he urged the burro to a gallop, determined to get to Ser Valeik as swiftly as possible and tell him Latour was winning. If Viscay’s men joined the fray and attacked Du Mulay’s flanks, there was still time to turn the tide of the battle. Neither side’s cavalry had made a charge, and victory was still possible. Latour’s men just had to hold firm a little longer.
Borne looked over his shoulder to see the knight he’d just evaded riding hard after him. The little burro was no match for the man’s destrier, and within the space of three ragged breaths, Valeik’s scout had nearly closed the gap. Before Borne could decide how best to handle this, he was knocked from his saddle and hurled to the ground, the air slammed from his lungs.
A cry behind him was followed by a silencing thud.
Struggling for breath, Borne heard the burro and the horse trotting on. With a groan, he rolled painfully to his side. The knight lay in the grass, his neck bent at a sharp, unforgiving angle. Then Borne saw the taut rope, strung at rider height, that had felled them both.
He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, and looked up to find a large company of armed men on horseback closing on him. Their dark, bearded faces and plain garments indicated they were not Viscay men. They carried makeshift weapons, many of which were directed at him.
Borne raised his hands above his head as he rose carefully to his feet.
“It wasn’t our intention to kill your friend.” The man who spoke had the proud air of a prince. Gralian was not his native tongue.
There was no time to observe the proprieties. “Do you serve Du Mulay?” Borne demanded.
The man spat on the ground. “No.” He gave Borne a measured look, taking in his religious attire. “Do you?”
Borne’s ears were still ringing from his fall, but there was something about the voice that was familiar. “I serve under Marechal Latour, who is King Crenel’s man,” he said. “As we speak, our company is about to be overwhelmed by Du Mulay. I was on my way to urge the men of Viscay to come to our aid.”
“I see,” said the mounted man. “Then I regret to inform you that we saw the Viscay force riding east, away from this conflict.”
Borne uttered an extremely un-monklike oath. Valeik’s other two scouts must have gotten past him and delivered their own report after all.
His interlocuter raised his dark brows. “You swear in Drinn, yet you serve the king of Gral.” Before Borne could respond, he demanded, “How many men in Du Mulay’s army?”
“Half again Latour’s numbers. But we could have easily defeated them with Rapett’s reinforcements.” Borne didn’t attempt to disguise his bitter frustration.
A gleam lit the bearded man’s dark eyes. “Ah,” he replied, “do you tell me now? Perhaps we can be of assistance—for a price.”
Chapter 5
Halla
The life of a soldier suited Halla in every way. No one cared if she combed her unruly hair. No one wished she’d act more “like a lady.” Her simple tunics and trousers didn’t hamper her every movement like the skirts she’d been forced to wear at home, and she could train without anyone interrupting to insist she attend to her embroidery.
Nevertheless, in her early days with Nicu’s company, she still found herself on the outside looking in. Not because of her gender, but because of her lack of å Livåri blood. More than once Nicu’s wary men asked her to explain her reasons for adopting their cause. But with each raid in which she risked her life alongside them, she earned more of their trust, until now she felt they were, at last, beginning to accept her as one of their own.
Initially she’d chafed at playing the role Nicu expected of her on their forays into towns. But she couldn’t deny that posing as an Albrenian noblewoman traveling with slaves had met with success—so mu
ch so that the å Livåri had been able to rescue scores of their stolen women. The company’s bold exploits had even drawn the attention of Palan, the Albrenian commander of the king’s army, who’d set a high price on their heads.
Halla wondered what Palan would think if he knew that his escaped “property” was among the emancipators.
To avoid Palan’s long reach, the å Livåri had established their headquarters over the border in Gral. The camp wasn’t far from the coast, as Nicu needed to hire ships to get the freed women back to the relative safety of Drinnglennin. To Halla’s relief, he hadn’t again mentioned sending her with them. Still, she maintained a distance from the å Livåri females. As much as she missed having a friend like Bria, she feared too much association with the women might cost her her hard-earned place among the men. So instead she kept company with Mihail and Baldo, the two men who had rescued her in the street in Segavia and who had since become her fast friends. When they weren’t all out on a raid, she foraged and trained with them—and in the evenings she passed the time laughing at their rough jokes and their boasts of prowess, both on the field and between the sheets.
It wasn’t only Halla who avoided spending too much time with the å Livåri females—the men did as well. Of course every man in camp was well aware of the presence of these young, attractive women; Halla noted with much amusement the increased frequency of bathing and beard-trimming among her comrades. But the men were sensitive to what the women had endured at the hands of their captors. The rescued women didn’t speak of their captivity—nor did they mention their separation from husbands, brothers, fathers, and children—but their silence spoke volumes. As such, the men made none of the bold overtures Halla had often witnessed from the males of Bria’s clan. Occasionally a man and woman would pair off, but these were quiet arrangements, seemingly as much for solace as for sex.
One evening, Halla was drinking with Baldo when she saw Guaril approaching her with a disturbing gleam in his eye. Baldo must have discerned it too, for he rose and uttered a single, unfamiliar word that stopped Guaril in his tracks.
