by Ulff Lehmann
Mireynh was just about to slam both fists onto the tabletop when his aide entered. “Milord General, I would advise against that. The Caretakers said any strain to your body would put more pressure on your back.”
He cast a scathing look at the young man. Sycophantic as Nairn was, he was still efficient in looking after his needs, even if his overeager nature annoyed Mireynh on a daily basis. “Nairn, thank you for your consideration,” he said, not trying to hide the sarcasm tinting his voice. Nairn merely nodded in his typical way. Whether the man was mocking him or being serious was impossible to tell.
“Your wellbeing is my chief concern, milord.” Was there a trace of irony in his voice? He couldn’t tell. With the Black Bastards and Bitches it was easy. They never hid their intentions. Nairn, however, was a trained courtier; at least he behaved like one. Or maybe he was just getting paranoid.
“Send runners to the warleaders, ask them here at once,” Mireynh said, and then added, “When that’s done, start packing my things, and yours as well.”
“We’re leaving?” Again, no hint of emotion marred the aide’s face.
“Aye, in a week or so we should be back in Harail.”
“Let’s hope the snow waits until then, aside from the Elven Roads these trails here barely deserve to be called trails.”
“True enough. Now get to it.”
Nairn bowed, saying, “At once, milord.” Then he hurried out, adopting a casual, yet purposeful stroll. Mireynh had seen these antics so many times he didn’t notice.
A feeling of dismay rose as he glanced at the tattered reports stacked on his table. In all likelihood most were merely wounded, like House Argram’s warriors, but the death toll would be high. Maybe one or two hundred, at least he hoped it were that few. The corridors had prevented the enemy archers from shooting feathered death into the infantry, but the slingthrower rocks had drilled through some of the roofs. “Perhaps there’re more,” he muttered.
He had just taken the first report—he didn’t mind the state the papers were in; given last night’s fighting the Wardens and warleaders had better things to do than to find a suitable spot to write—when a voice outside shouted, “Message for the High General! Let me pass!”
It had to be urgent. Usually the couriers were a quiet lot, passing through camp like any other rider. That this one announced his presence so loudly underlined his importance.
With a grunt he rose. His back ached, courtesy of being in the saddle longer than he had in ages. Nairn would have sent for a healer. He grimaced. The Caretakers had better things to do than worry about one old man’s back. There were too many wounded, and he refused to draw any Eanaighist away from where he was needed. Gritting his teeth, he went for the flap.
Before he was halfway there, the fabric was pushed aside and a haggard looking man came in. The messenger gave a weak salute. Judging from the state of his clothes, the chap had not slept for days.
“Milord General, urgent missive from Herascor.”
Wearily he returned the salute and took the proffered scroll-tube. Both King Drammoch and the High Advisor had sealed it. He was far too tired to hide his surprise. This, indeed, was urgent. “Thanks,” he muttered absentmindedly. “Take one”—he pointed at the tray laden with bottles—“and tell my cook to fix you something. Dismissed.” What kind of booze the courier made off with didn’t concern him, the man’s presence forgotten by the time he broke the seals and sank back onto his chair. Two seals, no other message had been secured this way, it had to be very important. He reached inside, withdrew the rolled-up parchment and read.
When he was done a second time, the first of his warleaders stood before him. “Fucking Scales,” he muttered, and took in the full of the writing once more.
“Make a hole,” someone in front of the tent said. Irritated, he looked up and saw four men in Argram livery carry inside a litter bearing their lord. Weary though all of them looked, the warriors managed to clear the path before an accident could occur. He barely noticed.
“Milord?” Noel Trileigh sounded as tired as he felt. He looked at the Lord Commander; the noble not only sounded as he felt but looked the part as well. Wordlessly he held out the message, if he couldn’t share this information with Drammoch’s cousin with whom else then.
“Read, tell me what you think,” he grumbled.
Nairn passed out mugs filled with steaming tea. His, as always, was spiced with a bit of mead. Dully he nodded his thanks. How the Scales was this possible? He burned his lips on the liquid, but hardly felt the pain; the dull ache in his stomach overshadowed such paltry things as scalding tea.
He felt betrayed, angry, and empty. Ralgon would escape once more. He had no doubt that the bastard was at Ondalan; Lord Kirrich’s description too precise to be an empty tale. If only he had been able to get his hands around the Scythe’s throat. The enthused determination he had felt only moments ago was gone. Did this war really matter? Did his family matter? Kirran was dead, and his killer had eluded him again. No, he decided. Not if he could get to Ondalan within the day! “Nairn, get my horse ready! Killoy, have your Horse saddle up!”
“Sir?” Killoy asked, looking at him as if he were mad.
“You heard me! We need to get to Ondalan!” he roared. “We need to catch him!”
“Catch who, milord?” the cavalry leader said.
“The bastard who’s taken the place!” he shot back. Noel Trileigh cleared his throat. He glared at the noble, “What?”
“Cirrain has most certainly fled, General, what needs to concern us now is how to keep more mischief from happening.”
“Ralgon is getting away!”
“Who?” Sir Duncan asked.
“We can still catch the bastard!” Didn’t they understand?
“Sir, whoever this Ralgon is,” Trileigh put in, “we have to think of the invasion, and the code, and the spy in our midst, not some personal vendetta. House Cirrain hasn’t been cleared of treason; the message that said so was a forgery.” When had this fop become so levelheaded, he wondered. Then he realized just how the hope of capturing Ralgon distracted him. Gods, he had matters of more importance to attend to.
He looked at Nairn who had remained inside, staring at him like he was some kind of ghost. “Forget what I said,” he muttered, embarrassed that one such as Trileigh had reminded him of what was important. “Killoy, don’t gather the Horse.”
“What does the message say?” demanded Sir Braddan.
“It is written in the clear, no code, signed by the King and the High Advisor,” Trileigh answered, his frown shifting from the parchment to Mireynh and back to the missive. “House Cirrain is still in open rebellion, and we are to put Anneijhan of House Cirrain and her troops in chains and send them to Herascor.” His look returned to Mireynh. “The message saying House Cirrain had returned to its senses was written in code, this one is not. Yet I know my cousin’s hand, no scribe wrote this. I suspect there was no time to encode it, things with House Cirrain and the northmen seem urgent.”
“Are you saying Duasonh got a spy into our camp who cracked the code and managed to sneak in a forged message indistinguishable from the official one?” Duncan Argram said from his litter.
“Aye,” Trileigh replied. Why hadn’t he seen the obvious connection? Had his hate for Ralgon blinded him so much that he couldn’t see the obvious? Mireynh was angry with himself for being blinded by his reawakened thirst for revenge.
He scoffed. All heads turned to regard him, and, trying to keep the anger from seeping into his voice, he said, “That makes things easier. We all can agree that even though we have superior numbers, Dunthiochagh’s defenses are holding and we will waste resources trying to get inside without the support of more artillery.”
“Bloody wizard bitch,” Argram spat, others muttered in agreement.
“We can’t confirm whether Duasonh’s wizard is dead or not, but we have to assume the worst.” He halted, seeing the head of a Black Bitch poking inside, listening. Sh
e was not staring daggers at him, and he dared to hope Fiacuil had been able to sway their opinions. If not, it was still best to proceed.
“Without proper equipment we’ll never be able to take the entire city. It’s getting colder, and the clouds gathering around us are heavy with snow,” he continued. “We’ll retreat to Harail, wait out the winter, building new artillery, and licking our wounds. Duasonh will no doubt do the same, but even if there is no siege, with all the food we have foraged, people within Dunthiochagh will starve before Seed. Next year we will succeed.”
Silence followed; he watched them ponder his decision. Some certainly would voice the issue of freeborn and villeins having to return to their fields before Seed, but he had a reply ready for them.
It was Lord Kirrich who spoke first. “Sir, with the beginning of next year we need to be home, on the fields. Planting takes priority, otherwise we all will starve.”
“The High Advisor has assured me that all will be taken care of.”
“How?” the noble wanted to know. That anyone would question the High Advisor’s word was one thing, he could live with that. But one of his warleaders putting his word to the test was quite another.
“All will be settled,” he answered coldly. “Dismissed! We’re heading back to Harail.”
As he watched the noblemen and noblewomen file out, he saw meaningful glances exchanged by Kirrich and Killoy. He understood their unease, both Houses were largely dependent on agriculture, and the vague promise he had given them—if he were honest with himself—did not sound truly convincing. On the other hand, by now he hoped the nobles trusted his judgment. The moment his word was questioned would open a new rift of distrust.
When Sir Duncan’s litter had been carried out, the only people left were Nairn and Lord Trileigh. “Leave us,” he told the servant, and when the sycophant was gone, he turned to the Lord Commander who calmly regarded him.
“You are a learned man, Trileigh.” The other acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “When I was told of the planned invasion, I was skeptical, to say the least. You know I’m not fond of traitors, there’s a reason for that.”
“I assume it is this Ralgon,” the Lord Commander said. Then he hesitated, frowning. “Is that Drangar Ralgon?”
It was his turn to be surprised. How would one such as Trileigh know of the bastard? “You heard of him?” Mireynh asked, his voice betraying nothing of the resigned anger he still felt at having his son’s killer elude him once more.
It took Trileigh a moment to reply. Then he said, “Aye, he butchered his way through a lord’s castle to free a nobleman’s daughter.” Chuckling, he added, “The reward promised for the girl’s return was a distraction for the father’s villeins and relatives, the fool had bartered the girl away, receiving a hefty dowry to pay off his debts.”
“I take it the rescue wasn’t well received,” Mireynh asked.
“Not from the father, no, but to his family and villeins Ralgon was heralded a hero, so he had no choice but to reward him. Next thing that happened was the groom putting out his own reward for Ralgon’s head; ever since he hasn’t set foot on Chanastardhian soil.” There was a brief pause, Trileigh studied him, and he wondered what was going on in the noble’s mind. “Ralgon has a knack for stirring up trouble, hasn’t he?”
“Aye,” Mireynh replied, and before he could say more his second in command continued.
“Sir, vendettas will not help the war effort. In all likelihood Lord Kirrich was allowed to flee so you knew he was there and to distract you.” He paused a moment, then said, “We should have abandoned this venture right after we found out that the gates are closed. Now the best we can do is leave and wait. Your choice is the correct one, and I will say as much in my report to my cousin.”
Mireynh stared, unsure how to react to the revelation that Noel Trileigh was personally reporting to the King.
His ire must have shown on his face, for the King’s cousin said, “Not to worry, sir. I did not spy on you nor work against you.” There surely was more to the man than he had thought. To a degree he was still the fop who had demanded that his tent be fortified with a flimsy palisade; his tent here was surrounded by a moat that wouldn’t stop a squirrel, for gods’ sakes. But now, for the first time, he saw the royal cousin as valuable ally. Maybe not all was lost. “I will make sure this retreat will not be seen as failure,” Trileigh finished. Then a frown creased his forehead, “Why, pray tell, do you want Ralgon so badly? He’s just a rogue.”
Just a rogue, he thought, struggling to keep from snarling at the man. “He killed my son.” Let the noble keep guessing. Even though he began to like the man, he was not ready to relive the entire story by relating it to anyone.
Trileigh must have guessed there was more to it, but thankfully kept silent. He nodded, saying, “I’ll see that we are on our way by noon.”
Before the noble had reached the flap, Mireynh said, “Make the patrol big. Last night’s interference by those damned archers on the eastern side might just invite those bastards to harry us further when we retreat.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Trileigh then left.
A few moments later, he had just begun to fold the assorted papers into a bag, Fiacuil poked his head in. “A word?” the Black Guard asked.
“Sure, come in.” Had he already succeeded in convincing his fellows? Mireynh was eager to find out, but knew he couldn’t do so overtly. Tying the bag shut, he said, “So, what can I do for you?” If the Black Guard suspected manipulation, he didn’t show it. He began to roll up the maps, looking up at Fiacuil. “Come on, we haven’t got all day.”
Finally, the guardsman said, “What about the dead? Shall we just leave them here?”
He paused, the rolled-up maps halfway in the scroll case. The dead, he had almost forgotten about the corpses littering Dunthiochagh’s wall. For a moment he pondered what to do. In Chanastardh people were buried in cairns, and though they had some stones, courtesy of Danastaerian slingthrowers, it would take days to bury them properly. Besides, Duasonh had already sent walking dead to harry them before. Who was to say the Baron wouldn’t try the same trick a second time? He called for Nairn. His aide entered a few moments later.
“Send a messenger to Dunthiochagh, under colors of truce. Inform them we wish to retrieve our dead and grant our gracious enemies the same, understood?” Nairn bobbed his head and left. To Fiacuil he said, “We’ll burn them.”
“Very good, milord.”
When the flap blocked out daylight once more, and he was alone, Urgraith Mireynh looked at the old suit of armor hanging from its rack. He hadn’t truly been aware of how much he’d wanted to be part of the escalade, to once more feel blows glance off the steel, to once more enjoy the sound a sword made when it slid into an enemy’s entrails. Dunthiochagh was that enemy now, the army his sword and armor, and though he wanted to drive this sword into the enemy’s guts, his thoughts and desires were once more directed at getting out from under the High Advisor’s clutches. Noel Trileigh had set his head straight. Ralgon was just a rogue; there were thousands in the world, and maybe, just maybe, he was in part to blame for Kirran’s death. That realization lifted a great weight off his shoulders, and for a moment he felt like a young man again.
For the first time in years, his back no longer ached. Wistfully he smiled and stroked the steely rivulets engraved on the breastplate. The weight was gone, and with it the pains in his back. Perhaps he would be able to stand atop the bloody walls of Dunthiochagh in his armor, sword in hand.
But first, there was the trek back to Harail and the comforts of the Royal Palace. In three months, he’d show Cumaill Duasonh just what war truly meant.
CHAPTER 10
It was amazing how the sound of the whetstone running down the blade calmed Drangar. Despite the chill that had increased tenfold since sundown, he didn’t join the camp Sir Úistan and his men had erected in a sheltered depression near the river. Their looks convinced him he was not wanted there. Not th
at he blamed them. Instead, he had remained here, on the eastern outskirts of Ondalan, alone. Too many things were going on in his mind, and he still tried to make sense of them.
To his right, a small fire struggled to give him warmth, impossible really in this last night of fall. It still provided needed illumination. To his left lay a discarded cloth, smeared with blood and oil. How easy it was to clean the blade; his hands, face and armor had fared worse. All in all, the blood had penetrated the layers of cloth and leather, crept into the fabric, and remained there, in an almost frozen state. The only thing that did not have the metallic smell was the cloak he had discarded before the madness had begun.
Up and down the whetstone went, as he relaxed. Shortly before dawn the fire went out, and he sat there, still. The outer darkness felt almost familiar by now. Unlike the Fiend that lurked within, it was comforting to know that now only the chill affected his body.
Drangar watched the sun creep across the eastern horizon, still pondering who and why he was. Yesterday’s slaughter was unlike anything he had ever consciously experienced. Sure, there was the fury at Little Creek, but even then, his inebriated self had retained some measure of control. At least that was what he had told himself time and again. Had he been unaware of the Fiend back then? He knew he had never felt this dark presence the way he did now, and he certainly was no miracle in the sense that some god or other had returned him to the world to fulfill some divine mission. The gods could be cruel, but even Lesganagh never condoned meaningless slaughter. Slaughter, yes. Judging from what he had read in his youth, the Lord of Sun and War was pretty straightforward when it came to destruction; though like everything else there always was a reason, an explanation behind it. He had seen some of his victims, and if there was a reason behind the evisceration of one and the tearing-in-half of another, with bare hands, he could not see it.
