by Wilf Jones
No. That wasn’t helpful. Seama made himself step away from the question: if it couldn’t be answered what was the point in asking? He was drifting back into speculation again, except this time he was inclined to come down on the side of the doubters. A more logical place to be. He remembered his argument with Tregar now in a new light. Had it been Tregar blæthering on and Seama doing the listening instead, how would he have responded? Probably not well. But there was a difference between that speculation and this speculation: the Song of Ages had been behind the first argument, but it wasn’t behind this one. What he needed to do now, Seama decided, in the absence of that gut feeling that had driven him before, was keep to the facts and not the fears.
The fact was Athoff Ringsøyr was using the Black Company as an incitement to war. He was using their atrocities to promote a muster. If he succeeded in mobilizing the nation then war would become inevitable whatever might happen here at Moreda. Once gathered his army would have a momentum that would be hard to stop.
Thankfully, Athoff was hampered in his efforts by the Aegardean political system, and his mustering might take a long and wearisome time. In Aegarde there were many hundreds of districts whose chiefs or Lords ruled as though they were kings. In all the North Eastern district of the forest, for example, Lord Gumb was the final authority in matters of law, business and social organization. If any man disagreed with his decisions there was still a possible court of appeal: the court in the Aegardean capital where the King was the final arbiter. But it was many years since the crown had gone against any of the regional plenipotentiaries: why would a king upset the people who organized the collection and payment of taxes.
The consequence of that was not helpfull to Athoff. The crown couldn’t force all or any to raise armies for the nations sake. They could be persuaded by oratory or convinced by payment that taking up arms would be a good thing but they couldn’t be coerced. To raise a substantial army Athoff would need time and a lot of money. Seama’s problem was that they didn’t know how far the King’s son had progressed his cause. Seama feared it was his own cause that was running out of time. Somewhere in the Partian northlands Tregar, with the Houses of Anparas and Temor, was confronting the real enemy. Seama was certain of it, whatever logic or reason had to say, and he knew that if this real enemy was ever to be repulsed, all four nations had to be brought together. As yet they were fighting amongst themselves. In a way Seama’a work was similar to Athoff’s: he needed to muster the support of as many men and women as possible and he needed to do it quickly. The first step in the process was to remove the cause of dispute between Aegarde and Gothery and hence Pars. He needed to defeat the Black Company and prove Gothery’s innocence and he needed to stop Athoff.
And all of this in double quick time.
They had a trouble-free passage through to Moreda and that was something of a surprise. Gumb had chosen a minor route that wove through the glades and avoided the main road, but even so, Seama thought, any army worth its salt would have contrived some form of early warning. The forest Lord had sent out his most experienced woodsmen to scout ahead as a precaution against ambush but even as they covered the last few miles there hadn’t been a single sighting of the enemy to report.
Seama talked it through with Angren and Terrance. Angren was convinced they were already expected and that the lack of guard patrols meant the enemy had other means of protecting itself. The Company had sorcerers after all. Terrance disagreed. He preferred to think that they were just arrogant. After months of repeated and poorly opposed victories they believed that no one would dare seek them out. Seama decided to keep an open mind.
It was nearly midnight when they came upon the home clearing. Skirting the perimeter towards the main road they found a wooden hut lurking beneath the dark edge of the forest. It was a guard post and yellow light shone through the open shutters – the enemy at last. Laughter and yelps of pain came from within and it was soon apparent that the guards had decided to make their duty lighter by bringing beer and a young boy out with them.
Gumb’s best archers were detailed to take care of it; three of them moved up to the two slightly open windows, another two waited to kick-in through the door.
‘I want one of them alive,’ Seama had told them.
Within the hut, the guards were engrossed. When the door burst open they had no time to save themselves. Bowstrings thrummed eight times and it was done. Seama, Angren and Gumb followed the archers inside.
A sobbing boy of maybe eleven or twelve years was bent over a table with a dead man slumped over him. The boy was covered in bruises. Three other men lay dead amidst the spilled beer, arrows sprouting from chests or backs, but the last man, the one ‘spared’ by the archers, had been sitting on a bench with his back to the wall and now he sat with four arrows piercing his arms and groin. One arrow had been fired with such power that it had passed through his fleshy right arm and pinned the man to the wall behind him.
The first thought was to free their victim and Seama took off his cloak to cover the child’s nakedness. Cold and pale and now silent the boy confronted the pinned man who had been the first to abuse him. The abuser, distracted by pain, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. The boy spat in his face and turned to leave on his own two feet. They carried him when he collapsed at the door and took him to a camp that Alan was setting up among the trees.
The Wizard Beltomé looked at the man nailed to the wall. He was in a piteous state with blood oozing through his clothes and agony engraved on his drool smeared face. Every slight movement he made, every breath he took, caused the muscles to tear a little more; the torment stiffened his arms in premature rigor. Piteous but unpitied. Seama had seen blood and bruises on a boy of twelve. It was evil that faced him and he could spare no compassion for it. He stooped to examine the white contorted face, quite prepared to twist the arrows if he must in order to gain information.
The man, however, was ready to talk. He wasn’t concerned with honour or bravery, but thought he might bargain for his freedom. He told Seama that ninety men remained in the main house with another ten out scavenging amongst the corpses in villages thereabout. Their weapons were swords, spears and arrows, and all were mounted. Prisoners, nearly all women and some children, were locked in the cellars unless they were required upstairs. He couldn’t tell Seama where the new girl was being kept and couldn’t say how many prisoners there were as some didn’t last very long.
It was probably because of his pain that he couldn’t control his features: an habitual leer came over his face as he spoke. Gumb had been standing just behind Seama, and now, bristling with rage, he pushed past the wizard and dealt the man a mighty backhander with his gauntleted fist.
‘I’ll knock that grin off your face, you piece of slime!’ he yelled, and hit him again. Everyone heard the sickening crack.
Gumb was a very strong man. The piece of slime could tell them nothing more. The baron stepped back, muttering an apology to the wizard.
Seama had been hoping for some description of the sorcerers, the name of their leader, an idea of their powers, anything that might give him a clue as to how to deal with them, but although that hope was now gone, it wasn’t in him to criticise Gumb’s action.
‘No apologies,’ he said, ‘the man was bad. We’ll act quietly tonight, My Lord, and tomorrow we will battle – nothing is changed for the lack of knowledge. Leave the guard house with its full compliment and a few more people in the wood nearby, in case those scavengers return. I’ll not have them raising the alarm at the last minute. How many men have you?’
‘You’d better ask Alan,’ he said, indicating his nephew who had just walked into the hut, ‘He picked the guard of honour.’
‘How many? Well we started with sixty-six, Uncle, before Thackray and his two left us.’
‘Sixty-three then,’ said Gumb. ‘That makes us well outnumbered, never mind any so
rcery.’
‘If you can cope with the numbers, I will deal with the sorcery. You’ll have my people, don’t forget.’
‘And worth their weight by the look of them.’
‘They are. But there’s a lot to do before morning so let’s get on. I don’t believe in fate but it was lucky we found Guy. Just a little more luck and we’ll be in and out by dawn. Whatever happens inside, Gumb, you have to be in place or we’ll be caught.
‘Never fear, My Lord Wizard. My fella’s are looking forward to it.’
Whether or not that was true, Seama didn’t doubt they would be ready.
The house was set on a mound surrounded by a moat but although it had castellated rooves it was in no way a castle. It was a manor house and as such separated from the surrounding villages by a few sacred miles. Here, as elsewhere, the rich were jealous of their privacy. There were some outbuildings beyond the protection of the moat: housing for labourers, storage for tools. Stabling covered an acre beyond the moat to the left of the house but Guy warned that normally half a dozen horses were kept close by the main doors for the convenience of the Lords. Seama didn’t want to risk a reconnaisance of the main entrance but he hoped the practice had not been discontinued. They would need horses from somewhere and they could hardly picket their own mounts near the causeway.
The unabated clouds grew heavy over the leaded rooves of La Casa Moreda. Ten, eleven, twelve miles away sheet-lightning flashed in the sky and the lazy growl rumbled through the night. Three men, a woman and a boy, crept and stumbled through the dark pastures to the rear of the building, hoping as one that the rain would hold off until they reached shelter. There would be no main door for these five but a safer, less exalted way in. Guy’s help had proved invaluable. He told them that he often wandered out after dark, though he failed to say why, and to avoid the disapproval of elders or betters he’d made himself a secret entrance. There were several decorative trees in the park and one of them, a cedar with drooping limbs, grew very close to the moat opposite the new pantry. Its branches reached low over the water and Guy had discovered that, with just a bit of a jump, he could get across without a ducking. Only Angren miscalculated his leap, slipping at the edge of the water. It made him curse when water ran into his boots.
Low on one side of the pantry was a sizeable hole. Its function was to ventilate the store and, in order to keep out the rats and mice, an iron grille and screen of wire mesh had been installed to cover the gap. ‘They seemed to have come loose sometime,’ Guy told them. It had taken him hours.
From the pantry there was a door into the kitchen and the house proper. The cellars were close at hand.
It all seemed too easy. Some movement, drunken sounds, could be heard in the depths of the house but sodden with fulfilled lusts, jaded through lack of useful activity, most of the barbarous army was most likely fast asleep.
So conceited an enemy Seama had never known. They hadn’t bothered with guards on the house perimeter or on the rooves, or at least any sentries so posted had been too indisciplined to forego their little pleasures and had casually abandoned their duty. Terrance had it right: these villains felt themselves invulnerable.
And so the fields were behind our infiltrators, the tree climbed and the moat crossed. Easing out the grille Guy made a little noise but drew no response from within. The pantry was lit by a single candle that was nearly burnt out: a forgotten stub. A brighter light outlined the door to the kitchen and Terrance was first to it. He motioned for their silence while he listened at a gap between the door and frame.
‘We may go on, but quietly,’ he whispered, ‘I can hear snoring.’
He took the door handle and turned it, and tutted when it refused to turn far enough. Without a word he removed three slivers of metal from a jacket pocket and began to pick the lock.
Guy pushed forward and when he saw what Terrance was doing he tried to attract his attention.
‘Mr. De Vere, sir—’
‘Quiet youth, while I am working, if you please.’
‘But—’
‘Oh damn:’ He had bent his picks to no effect. ‘The lock is stuck.’
‘That’s just what I was trying to tell you. It’s been stuck for as long as I can remember.’ Guy grinned.
‘So how come it’s locked? Do they not eat in Moreda?’
‘Well clever cloggs, if you were a bit stronger youd’ve found it wasn’t locked at all.’
‘Impudent little rascal,’’ said Terrance. ‘Perhaps Angren would do the honours then?’
Guy was enjoying himself. This was a much better way of getting his revenge. Full of confidence he reached out.
‘No need, I’ll do it.’ He twisted the handle with all his might and the catch snapped open with a loud clack. Even Guy froze in his tracks.
Terrance had his ear at the door again, a frown on his face as he strained to listen. Then he relaxed: the snoring had continued.
He turned to Guy.
‘Now youth, when you have a leader you will do as he says and nothing more, is that clear? We all know you had the strength but Angren has more and wouldn’t have had to jerk at it. What if you’d raised the alarm? What chance would we have had? It’s been easy so far, but when we’re inside mistakes may cost lives.’
All of this was said in a whisper, but Guy heard every word and his blushes were loud. He dropped back to let Angren and Sigrid get past.
Terrance pushed gently at the door and then peered round it, quiet as a mouse wary of cats. The room he saw was a disaster area. Yet another night of ribaldry had passed through and left broken dishes, spilled pans and a liberal scattering of food refuse: chicken bones, gravy pools, rotting cabbage, crusts and crumbs everywhere.
Left behind amidst the rubbish were two men. They were sitting at the greasy kitchen table, empty mugs at their sides, playing cards scattered around them. Their celebration had taken its toll. One man, fat as a pregnant cow, wearing what was once a white vest that was too small for him, slumped forward unconscious, his sweaty, hairy belly flabbing out for all to see and feel nauseated by. His companion was the snorer. Though physically neater and dressed in good Gothery shirt and trousers, he was as grotesque as his partner. He slept in his chair, head tipped backward and mouth open wide, oblivious to the mess around him.
Terrance signalled that Sigrid should enter first and by the time Guy was allowed to follow, there were two dead men at the table. One had nearly lost his head while the fat one had blood spreading over the back of his vest. Sigrid stood to one side wiping her twin swords on a rag.
‘‘Guy,’ said Terrance, ignoring the gruesome tableau, ‘which way is the cellar from here? We must hurry while everything is going so well.’
Guy took Terrance to the cellar door, saying nothing. He had never known people like Seama and his friends: people who would kill without thinking about it and yet, obviously, good people. In the Eastern forest fighting was a gentlemanly occupation rather than a means to an end. Bravery and chivalry forbade the killing of a sleeping man, and yet these good people didn’t give it a moment’s thought. He didn’t know what to think let alone what to say.
When he’d shown the others the entrance to the cellar, he hung back, trying to sort out his thoughts and occasionally looking through the open kitchen door to where Angren was disposing of the corpses. The weapon-master was bloodied by the time he’d forced them down behind the old black range. How many times had Guy hidden just there as a boy? The scene and the memory made him queasy and sad in a way he’d never known before.
Angren came out and taking Guy firmly by one arm led him away.
‘Come on, young’un. We’ve done with the kitchen now. There’s no time to dawdle.’
They were waiting for Terrance to pick another lock when Guy remembered the spare key on the ledge over the door. Terrance gave him a withering
look as he took the key and Guy grinned in spite of his gloomy thoughts.
MISS TRAVERS AND THE SORCERER
Moreda 3057.8.6
Helen Travers was not on the other side of that door but in proof of her passing something of what she was remained. At eighteen years of age, and born of a noble family, she had little experience of men and what motivates them. Her parents had made sure that she knew something about the physical love they shared and that she might look forward to, and of course she had seen the kissing and caressing of lovers in the parks of Ripon, so she was not wholly naive. But it hadn’t yet occurred to her that a man could enjoy forcing himself upon a woman. When she was captured by men without limits, who let their hands wander, who made lewd comments and told her baldly that later she would be providing the entertainment, she was confused and scared. But when her maids were raped on the way to Moreda and left naked and battered and bleeding in the forest, she was outraged.
She was consigned, after a great deal of trouble with Helen causing most of it, to the cellars of Moreda. She was amazed at the women she met there and by the stories they told. They ended irrevocably her ignorance of violent men, but rather than terrifying the girl with these tales of horror, travail and brutality, their words stoked her fury. ‘How dare they?’ she demanded. By what right could these men treat women and young children so cruelly? And why, in the name of the gods, with the children to protect, and in the face of such apparent evil, why did the women allow it? Helen was surprised by their bitter laughter.
