by Wilf Jones
Distracted by Seth’s awesome career the wizard suddenly found himself surrounded. Four of the enemy, inadequately dispatched, had risen again and he was soon struggling to fend-off too many blows at once. He discovered that his weapon-skills had grown rusty through disuse. He should have practiced more regularly. Two more enemy soldiers joined in the attack and it occurred to a certain detached part of his brain that, unless he was lucky, very lucky, he’d never get the chance to practice ever again. A sword fizzed at his face and Tregar threw himself backwards, crashed into patch of fern and struggled to right himself in the tangle of it, all the while expecting the sting of a blade.
Temor himself came to the wizard’s rescue. With two other Partians at his side he had waded in, swaggering, enjoying his power, and after a few minutes he gained them a little space. He chuckled as Tregar finally got to his feet.
‘Well, wizard, what do you think?’
Tregar was disgusted to see Temor so happy in his work, but also slightly embarrassed he’d needed rescuing. ‘What do I think?’ he said, his frown fiercer than usual, ‘I think we’re lucky to still be in it, that’s what I think.’
‘You are, anyway.’ The soldiers nearby grinned like lunatics as though Temor had made a truly witty comment – at least that was how Tregar saw it. Incredibly his frown deepened.
‘That’s not the point, Shaf, and ye know it. If ye hadn’t charged in like a mad bull this situation might never have come about.’
‘Rubbish: They’d still need fighting whatever I’d done. Come on Tregar, we haven’t done so badly, have we? Haven’t you seen Seth?’
‘I’ve seen him, but that doesn’t help us decide how we can possibly beat them. In case you hadn’t noticed, there are hundreds more of them than us, and they’re not that easy to kill.’
Temor stopped grinning. Tregar counted that small concession a victory. The Lord’s forehead wrinkled as he remembered his opponents. ‘They’re a rum lot, Tregar.’ he said, shaking his head, ‘What the devil are they?’
‘I don’t know, Lord Temor. Not devils. Devils are more like demons. These seem to be simply dead men and women. Dead men that walk. I don’t know how— Aaadh! Wee bugger!’
Suddenly, Tregar was hopping around clutching at his ankle. A head partially divorced from its shoulders had taken it in mind to bite whatever was closest. The wizard shook it free, hacked at the neck, and then began to kick the head around the field, screaming curses. He lost control. In temporary madness he imagined himself playing his native game of soccer, the head a grotesque and rather inefficient football. He kicked it over to Temor and yelled for the return.
‘One-two! One-two!’
Temor complied, laughing at the desecration, and Tregar scored a goal between imaginary posts. The exercise left him with a sore foot, panting and laughing idiotically. He was lucky the battle was not close. Gradually the madness like the panting subsided. It was the pain that brought him back. Standing, he tried to examine his ankle and ended up holding his foot in both hands, hopping wildly backwards, very much to Shaf’s amusement.
‘Bit clean through the leather,’ he said, ignoring the laughter, ‘Clean through!’
‘You need better boots.’
‘Very bladdie helpful.’
‘Well, if you’re going to be like that, Sir Wizard, we’ll leave you to it. I told you they were a rum lot. Perhaps you could think of something useful whilst you’re nursing your foot.’‘
Tregar growled in reply and Temor returned to the battle.
Incapacitated as he was, he thought it prudent to put some distance between himself and the fighting. Picking up his fallen sword he used it as a walking stick as he stumbled his way to a cluster of rocks well away from immediate danger.
He soon discovered that Cal had beaten him to it but Owen Cookson’s second son seemed unaware of Tregar’s approach. He sat motionless, staring unseeing at the battle for Greteth. Tregar noticed at once that Cal’s normally wayward left eye was held as steady as the right by the power of the trance that bound him.
‘What d’ye see, Cal Cookson?’ he called out, hoping to break the trance, but Cal’s voice was as faraway as his eyes when he said:
‘The blood stone, blood on the blade, a crime to put men to shame.’
‘Say what?’
The staring eyes faltered and swung apart and the young man looked about him in some surprise, fighting to control a sudden, violent shivering. He turned his face away from the wizard for a moment and then with a forced smile looked back.
‘Lord Tregar,’ he said and dipped his head.
‘‘Just plain Tregar will do. Are ye alright? Not hurt, I hope?’
‘Oh no. No, thanks for asking, but… I’m just…’ he shrugged and seemed embarrassed.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me? I thought ye might have been dreaming again?’
Cal’s features twisted into a pained grimace. His wayward eye twitched as it tried to match the good one and Tregar could see tears forming in the corners of both.
‘Aye. I’ve dreamt and dreamt and dreamt and its allus the same. Have you seen him? He can’t stop, he loves it: all the fighting and the killing. What’s this war going to do to him? What’s it doing to us?’
Tregar shook his head slowly,’War is war, Cal. There’s nothing good in war, even if your cause is just. It changes everyone. What’s your dream, Cal? Perhaps I can help. Cal… Cal! Cal, come back. Come back. Damn!’
The young man had barely listened to the wizard’s little homily and walked away, this time back into battle, clutching his grandfather’s sword in both hands. Tregar let him go, wondering whether both of Owen Cookson’s sons would survive the day.
For some few minutes Tregar busied himself with his wound and, being a master healer, he managed the cut without the use of medicines or bandages. What little power inherent Tregar had was virtually all directed towards healing. It was his major talent. Not every wizard could be like the great Lord Seama whose power could adopt almost any mode of expression he required. Why else would others study for years the arts of magic: the making of spells the naming of names, the lore of the elements? Why else, other than to supplement their lack?
Tregar rubbed his ankle and, satisfied he’d done a good job, he replaced his sock and boot. He was half-risen to get back to the fight before he caught himself.
‘Now just hold on, my laddie!’ he said aloud. ‘By the Gods but it takes a lot to get through that thick skull of yourn.’
He plumped himself back down again and looked to the battle for inspiration. He’d remembered not only Temor’s request that he should think of something to help them win, but also something a god had said a week or so before. ‘Let the warriors fight: you must use your skill,’ he’d said, and ‘if you’re a wizard, behave like one:’ A god. Uovin himself wanted Tregar to use whatever magic he possessed. And what had he done so far? Gotten himself bit in the ankle. Not very impressive. But where should he begin? He couldn’t blast people with sheer power as Seama could, and even Seama would have had some trouble with an entire army. Could he call a spell to send everyone to sleep? Then, perhaps, keeping some of Temor’s army out of it… Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself, a spell to send three thousand to sleep? Ha! And two thousand of them dead men at that. A dozen other stupid ideas wriggled through his brain as he watched Temor’s army grind to a halt once more and the enemy inexorably gain the advantage.
And then he was looking at the castle itself and his heart lurched in fear for those within. He had seen no archers amongst the crowd of their opponents, and hadn’t seen any other means of delivering flaming shot, but, sure enough, within the walls a black smoke swelled up and spilled over the battlements. He saw flames. Perhaps there were siege engines, ballistas in the Francon? He saw flames on the walls, flames that fell ragged over the sides. Tregar
blinked rapidly to clear his eyes and looked again. Again the flames fell.
‘Jaspar, you’re the man himself!’ Tregar yelled and gave a jig for joy as he watched the burning oil fall on the enemy and beyond all expectation set them afire! Apparently, dead men burned. Burned like fat from a pan! And as easy as speaking Tregar’s answer burst from his lips.
If his spell had been an arrow and he a master bowman it could have flown no straighter, nor plunged with more ferocity into the target. Tregar’s spell to another wizard would have had visible form, a blur of light erupting from his mouth and crossing the quarter mile to the castle walls in half a second. It exploded the falling oil like a huge firework over the main body of the enemy. A million drops of deadly rain showered them. Each drop found a mark, landing on flesh or cloth, it made no difference, each drop ignited and the fire spread. In minutes a quarter of the enemy were ablaze and the House of Temor was singing for joy. Their Lord led another foray and his men, with a new hope in their hearts, followed him.
The wizard looked for another opportunity to use the spell as he ran closer to the castle. Another large part of the enemy ranks held the ground to the left but Jaspar’s men were not close enough with their buckets of oil. The last thing Tregar wanted was to use the spell indiscriminately and end up wounding their own, but the men on the walls seemed bemused by the explosion and hardly knew what to do next. As he ran Tregar flapped his arms and yelled to draw their attention but even when he had it they didn’t seem to understand his extravagant sign language. He stopped, frustrated, scowled at his allies and yelled:
‘Can’t ye hear me, ye stupet beggars?’ and of course, despite Tregar’s mighty voice, they could not. He gave up yelling. He thought instead; and thought; and again it worked. The answer just slipped into his mind: a picture of Seama back in the Old Dog jumping at the bodiless voice in his ear. There was a similar technique he could use now. Instead of shouting he whispered and he gestured with his hands at the same time, as though he was waving. The words he spoke took wing and up on the walls of the castle a tall man heard his name spoken.
‘Jaspar, Lord Sands! Look beyond the crowd below, over to your right. It’s me, Tregar.’ The man nearly stepped off the inside wall in surprise. When the message repeated, he looked out and saw the wizard waving.
Tregar’s grin was now fixed on his face. Magic, he decided could be quite enjoyable. Jaspar was returning his wave. Tregar quickly gave him directions and soon men were scurrying toward the left hand walls carrying buckets of flaming oil on long poles. While they got themselves ready Tregar checked on the battle once more. At first it was difficult to make out what was happening in the central, seething mass but shortly, and to his dismay, everything became clear. Lord Temor’s spearhead attack had cut too deeply and despite the heroic efforts of Seth Cookson to force a way through to him, Shaf was in trouble. The enemy had closed around and only ten men stood with him – another thirty had been killed already. Some enemy commander was quick to realize the possible gain and hundreds of the walking dead swarmed around the desperate struggle, cutting off any hope of a rescue. Lord Temor, a mere ten minutes earlier, had victory in his heart and now, because of the rashness that ruled him he was doomed.
Tregar saw red. Not just the red in Seth’s sword, but the red of Lord Temor’s men dying to defend him. The rage that sometimes consumed him took hold of his every thought.
On the walls Jaspar’s defenders signalled their readiness. Tregar made up his mind. He spoke, cold and furious, into Lord Sands’ ear:
‘Altogether in the same place. The whole bladdie lot and do it now!’
The order was passed and on count of three, thirty buckets of oil swung into the air to converge above enemy heads. Tregar spoke.
The blast and roar deafened every man on the field. White hot oil, the molten metal of the buckets ripped apart, both fell as a second damnation upon the unfortunates beneath. The first deadly rain had been a shower, this was a deluge. The destruction was spread over so much of the field that many of the Partians felt the pain of it. Some suffered severe burns wherever the oil landed, many lost much of their hair. But the living did not ignite so easily as their enemy. The dead men burned and burned and Tregar with only a word, had won the cwm.
The enemy survivors, those fortunate enough to be standing in the lee of some angle in the walls, were only a few hundred. At first they milled about, as bewildered as the Partians, but even as the disgusting stench of burnt flesh crawled into the air, obeying some unspoken command, they formed themselves into an ordered squadron. Using the cover of smoke, fire and confusion they made a retreat. By the time Temor’s men caught up with them they’d almost reached the difficult path over the dyke. Tregar wasn’t surprised to see Seth Cookson leading the pursuit. Less than half of the escapees made a safe descent into the Francon, while the majority made the journey much more quickly.
Back in the cwm, battle won, the victors were silent. It was a tainted victory. Who could cheer? Who would dare? Lord Temor was dead.
They lifted his body high above his vanquished foes and bore him in all honour to the opening gates of Castle Greteth.
Lomal stood upon his hill and watched his men die. He felt sick. An anger swelled in him that he fought to keep down. What good would anger do? In the valley the battle was deteriorating. The enemy commander, wherever he might be, had put most of his resources into demolishing Anparas’ impertinent attack, eager to have his victory. Under increased pressure Lomal’s line of command broke down, plans and stratagems were forgotten and his soldiers were fighting for their lives. The cavalry were a shabby band now that so many horses had been chopped to the ground; platoons of foot, separated from the main battle groups, were systematically destroyed and the main groups found themselves surrounded and each under siege.
This was the first time in his life that Lomal had been at such a loss and not known what to do to retrieve the situation. All he could think was that somehow Temor must rescue them. He wasn’t aware that Temor was also hard pressed. When the first smokes rose from Greteth he presumed that the castle was on fire, and that Temor had not arrived in time. The two explosions were diminished by distance but were loud enough to scare him. He now feared a more wizardly attack. When a young sergeant nearby shouted and pointed toward the nick in the dyke where the cwm path traced a treacherous route, and at the sudden rush of the enemy coming onto that path, he resigned himself to their eventual defeat. It was by chance that he caught a glint of red above the dyke and yet, in that lone flicker understanding came flooding through him like a healing balm. He could hold the bile within, he could keep anger in check but he couldn’t restrain his shout of relief and joy.
‘See! See there, over on the dyke,’ he yelled, ‘Can’t you see him? That red. That’s Cookson’s boy! That’s Seth Cookson or I’m the wizard’s monkey!’
His men weren’t so sure, only a few of them had seen the sword that Seth carried, but, almost as if to reassure them, it wasn’t long before every trumpet on Greteth’s black walls was blowing a brave fanfare of a tune, a stirring song to get the blood pulsing: they were blowing The Conqueror, a song of victory!
THE FAREWELL
Francon valley 3057.8.8
Temor’s men had wanted the Farewell blown for their Lord and said so in no uncertain terms as they carried him bloody from the field. They were incensed by Jaspar’s refusal but he wouldn’t be swayed.
‘I will not allow it for Anparas’ sake,’ he told them, ‘They’ll think we have lost.’ His argument failed to impress. These soldiers had no good opinion of Jaspar to start with and now that their grief ruled them they did not and would not understand. When they spoke of dishonour Jaspar grew angry and an ugly scene would have developed if Tregar hadn’t stepped in. It was a delicate situation. From now until they all returned to Ayer it was likely that Jaspar would take command of Shaf’s army. Beginning with bad
feeling was not a good idea. Clearly, Jaspar was in the right. The Farewell would give the wrong message, but Tregar had an alternative for them that seemed so obvious he was surprised Sands hadn’t thought of it.
‘He has conquered against the odds,’ he told them. ‘We all count him a great man, a great leader, a great warrior. We’ll honour him best if we keep our farewells in our hearts and shout about his victory. Blow The Conqueror!’
Tregar’s true opinion he kept to himself but the suggestion was met with favour on both sides and so the trumpets sang out in Temor’s praise, and gave hope to those toiling below. The circumstance would not allow for ceremony, even his most loyal supporters would agree to that, but Jaspar detailed a small company to clean the Lord’s wounds and to dress him ready for the long sleep. And so as the battle raged on they laid Shaf, the Lord Temor, in the castle crypt with all honour. It was not the most noble resting place nor was it the least.
Up in the Hall Tregar was relieved to find Xandra still alive and uninjured. It was perhaps a cynical viewpoint but Tregar was certain that the safety of the Heir was crucial if King Mador was to be of any use in this war. They needed to keep her safe at all costs. The Lord Sands had called a meeting of all his commanders and Tregar supposed she was there as a matter of courtesy. They were all gathered around a map table over by the great fireplace. Though the fire was not lit, there was plenty of fire in the room. Xandra and Jaspar were going at it tooth and nail.
‘We’ve got to keep them rocking,’ she exclaimed with ferocious delight in her voice, ‘Got to press them until they give! Get them on the run. That’s what Shaf would have done and he was a General worth his ribbon.’
‘Meaning I’m not?’ Jaspar, fresh from his dispute with Temor’s men, was in no mood to take anything. ‘Let me remind you that it’s Shaf they’re wrapping down in the crypt right now. And even if we did play The Conqueror for him, it’s very obvious to me that his victory belongs to others yet walking.’
