Fates Choice

by Tristan Fairfield

  “Depends on formation and such but, from what you have said, maybe not. Depends on how many of us there are, and if there is anywhere to hide. A cavalry charge up their arse will make quicker mincemeat of them over and above a hundred dogs”.

  There certainly sounded like merit to Caenet’s thoughts and, as the day wore on, training took the fear from Torr’s mind. After he had finished with Caenet, he took the opportunity to practice with his largest hunting bow at the impromptu training field that he had set up where the ‘infantry’ were now practising weapons drill.

  None of these men had any real armour but they had been equipped with large and extremely long bill hooks that were actually designed to hook on the sides of their ships and help haul them in to their mooring. There was a certain knack to this that led to, not only very strong men, but also a certain technique that, Torr thought, could be useful in hooking and dragging down giantkin, in his own mind at least.

  Torr found himself shouting words of encouragement to the men as they practised, two of whom he recognised from the regatta win earlier during Highsun.

  One of the men also had a hunting bow so Torr entered a friendly wager with him, to see who could get more bulls eyes in the hastily erected reed targets that they had made.

  The other men had gathered round half way through and shouted bets as the two men drew and loosed their practice arrows. Torr won, but only just. After they had finished, Torr turned to the men and, without really thinking, said “Alright men, back to training” with an authority that surprised half the men.

  Torr quickly turned and told the sergeant to carry on. Just like the regatta, Torr felt oddly comfortable with the commands he issued.

  Just as he turned to leave himself, he saw Caenet, leaning forward in his saddle, grinning at Torr. The cavalryman saluted Torr as well, but winked as he did so, then, turning his horse, he returned to the stables.

  As Torr went to put his hunting bow back in one of the store buildings on the other side of the grounds, he suddenly thought of Eagred. It was the same bow he had when he went out hunting that time. It couldn’t hurt to have three dryads on our side, he thought.

  **************************************

  The following day was a dawn call, not unusually early or late for the start of the season of Stormsen. No one seemed to have told the weather that man had ordered a sudden change in season. There was no mist or dew as the men gathered in the training ground they had hastily prepared just a couple of days ago.

  The billhooks had been loaded into a caravan with all the men’s other equipment they had been allowed to take. The largest caravans still had not returned from the docks after Aelfsige had loaded The Sunlords Blessing at Paegas docks. A rider had returned to advise Aelboric that there had been a delay in the delivery of iron ore, ironically, due to a bandit attack south of Tantes. It was unclear if the caravan or supplies had survived.

  There was only one caravan left, which was little more than a patchwork of working spares cobbled together. The shafts of the billhooks sat at least a foot out the back of the wagon, whose wheels were three different colours. It only needed two horse to pull, which was also just as well as Torr and Caenet obviously rode on the two horses they had chosen.

  After a brief inspection, Torr had moved them out. His father, mother and sister had watched from the sidelines but had said goodbye to Torr in private. He thought his mother was trying to open a new tributary of the Daret with the amount of crying she had been doing. He could not tell her it wasn’t helping his nerves.

  Even Freda had embraced him with a worried expression on her face although she quickly composed herself, stood back from him, whilst still holding both his hand. “Don’t do anything that will embarrass us”. He caught a slight smirk on her lips though as she said it. He smiled back. Too often he forgot that his older sister was very much cut from the same cloth as himself regarding his sharp sense of humour.

  Before he could retort, his father had taken over the embrace and hugged his youngest son. There was a worry in his eyes that Torr was not used to. For all his father’s quiet anger at his son’s antics this year, he was entrusting him to the arms of The Sunlord if this all went wrong.

  Torr re-settled his plate breast plate which his family’s hugs had done their best to dislodge and left with the men, he and Caenet riding in front, heading up to Valheimer’s garrison north of Paega. Even with dry roads, it was a good few hour’s march, although it was no longer really hot now, just pleasantly warm, the clear and fair weather completely masking the fear of what was to come.

  Valheimer’s garrison came into view when they got past the abbey grounds. An imposing fortress as well it might. Essentially, if The Giant Wars spilled over into this part of the wealds themselves, over Daretmoor, Valheimer’s fortress would pretty much be on the front line, with Paega right behind it.

  The lack of watchmen that could be seen tied in with Garel’s earlier comments that he was operating on a skeleton staff anyway.

  Torr had obviously been to the garrison a few times before, but the lack of personnel had never really caught his attention previously. He had just presumed that was normal.

  His earlier outlook whilst studying and coming to the garrison for training and practice seemed a world away from Torr now as he approached the drawbridge which was, hospitably at least, down for them. Torr had to look closely to see if there was even anyone on the tower above the drawbridge. He saw two guards only. That tower alone could easily accommodate twenty or so.

  The training ground was the first open area as Torr’s party came out from under the drawbridge and portcullis and it was already a hive of activity even though it was not yet noon with Torr, presuming, that the guard from Tantes and the other merchants could be well behind them. A quick count showed perhaps twenty men or more, all infantry, undertaking noisy shield drill, with two or three other smaller groups coming and going from the second area that had been roped up since Torr had been here last.

  The garrison was nothing short of a full blown castle so even this many men were swallowed easily by the size of this outer bailey. Torr knew there were two other baileys, one of which was a cavalry tourney, before another portcullis and inner castle wall, which led to the keep and headquarters of Garel Valheimer. Torr had always looked forward to this element of his schooling. The constant feeling of apprehension that had settled on him the last couple of days temporarily lessened as he took the sights and sounds in.

  There were servants carrying buckets of water to the edge of the training grounds and taking empty ones away. He could see smoke rising from the next bailey where he knew the smithy was located, doubtless repairing and making arms and armour as best he could.

  There was also the smell of the stable straw wafting over as well in the breeze. Torr shut his eyes and drew a deep breath as Raelf, his horse, came in at a plod now. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a guard approaching him on foot, who quickly took Raelf’s reigns. Torr’s first instinct was to pull the bridle away from this man before he quickly remembered that he was now coming here again as a cavalry officer.

  He quickly dismounted and, without a word, let the man lead Raelf to the stables, before turning to Caenet.

  “Sergeant, you can accompany the horses to the stables. Once fettled, please rejoin us. I will lead the rest of the men and see if I can find the drill sergeant”. Although he knew what to say, there was still a lump in his throat when he addressed Caenet this way, for the first time, purely as his commanding officer and not as someone he looked up to and respected.

  “Very good sir,” Caenet responded, without giving any emotion away now either in this setting.

  Torr turned to the men who had obviously spent the last few hours marching from Home Manor to the garrison and were leaning against the caravan.

  “Attention please gentleman,” Torr said to them calmly, “remember where you are”.

  The men fell in readily enough and followed Torr around the perimeter
of the nearest training ground as he could see the entrance was on the far side where a drill sergeant appeared to be shouting commands at some of the more hapless looking recruits.

  Torr looked around for a familiar face as he looked across the bailey. It had been dry enough for the last few weeks of Highsun that the training grounds were kicking up quite a bit of dust. He could still see the trail being left by Raelf and Caenet’s mount, and also the horses who drew the caravan, as they disappeared into the next bailey. He could see no one he knew. The drill sergeant looked towards him. Torr had hoped that he was carrying the bearing of an officer but conceded that it was highly likely that it was just the coat of arms on his breast plate and shield, which generally only officers or sergeants would carry, that gave the sergeant any reason to look in his direction.

  The Skarsdales family crest, naturally, was a large ship, plain and simple, but it was doubtful that the drill sergeant would have known who he was. As he approached, with his men behind him, the sergeant stood stiffly to attention and saluted Torr, who, nonchalantly saluted back as he walked towards the man, who seemed a good half foot taller than Torr, bushy sideburns only adding to the impressive spectacle. Torr had at least seen he was bearing the Valheimer crest, two crossed swords. “Sergeant Bourne sir, garrison sergeant”, said the man. “Ahhh...Commander Skarsdale, sergeant”. Torr fumbled over his rank. In all the rush, no one had actually told Torr what it was yet. His commission at the completion of his training was not rank specific, merely that he held a scroll granting him a command. He had his scroll of commission with him but he only now recalled that, when he received it on completing his studies and exams, he was told it had to be presented to the officer in charge of wherever he had been posted. Only then would he be given his actual rank and assignment. Torr winced inwardly at the fact that he had possibly just promoted himself two or three ranks. If Sergeant Bourne realised this, and Torr thought he probably had, then he did not show it.

  “Ahh, we are obviously reporting for duty, just ten of us though, eight infantry, myself and my sergeant who has just gone with our horse”.

  “Very good sir” said Sergeant Bourne evenly. “Would you like a hand moving your wagon sir”.

  Torr turned around and closed his eyes in despair. He’d not told his men to move their wagon after it had been unhitched and the horses led away. It was right in the middle of the entrance to the castle, blocking the end of the drawbridge.

  Well that’ll give them something to laugh about in the sergeants’ mess later on, Torr thought shamefully to himself. “No need sergeant” Torr responded quickly gathering himself. Torr hailed his foot sergeant who was also still lumbering along just behind. The former shipyard worker also seemed to remember where he was and straightened his back and stopped. The man had actually just been promoted to shipyard foreman after Barak had gone with Aelfsige, so he seemed like a natural choice for their foot sergeant.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Sergeant, take four men and move the caravan off the drawbridge will you”. Torr turned to Sergeant Bourne. “Ahh...where would you like it moved Sergeant Bourne, this is your castle after all”.

  “Just to the side I would say sir. We’ll get runners to move it after your men have been billeted and taken their equipment out. Would you like me to find Commander Garel for you sir?”

  The last comment seemed more like a very strong suggestion but Torr was quickly picking himself up mentally after the embarrassment of leaving his wagon blocking the entrance to the whole castle.

  “No, that’s fine Sergeant, I think I can remember where everything is, if you can just tell me where Commander Garel is at the moment, I am sure I can find him”. He was winging it a little but was pretty certain he knew where most buildings and rooms were.

  “Very good sir, he is in the keep currently”.

  “Thank you sergeant” Torr turned to his foot sergeant again, who was now starting to look a little out of his depth as he had turned, slightly slack jawed again, to look at the men in the training compound. “Sergeant”. Torr had to raise his voice slightly, again with some embarrassment, to get his attention.

  “You heard Sergeant Bourne, take the men and move the wagon”. Torr turned to Sergeant Bourne again. “Sergeant, I’ll leave the men with you for, ahh... drill instruction until my return”. He was starting to chance his orders again, even as he regained his composure a little, but it mattered not. As a drill sergeant, the side-burned sporting Sergeant Bourne was too much of a soldier to give his own thoughts away.

  “Yes sir, as you wish”. Bourne saluted just before Torr had the chance to do so, almost as if the sergeant had already had enough of him. Torr saluted back as stiffly as he could.

  He made his way through to the next bailey, starting to quickly feel comfortable again with the sights and sounds he had grown accustomed to over the last few years of his training. There was only one way into each of the three outer baileys, all portcullised and with reinforced heavy oak doors and set as far away as possible from the other bailey entrances, so the maximum distance had to be covered by any attacking force, in between each defensible portion of the castle as a whole.

  Torr entered the second bailey and was actually looking towards the entrance to the third, some distance away, when he caught sight of a thin young man backing out of a door, that, Torr seemed to recall, was a store room. The young man indeed had two full hessian sacks of what he suspected was grain. As the young man came out, two other men followed him out of the store room, similarly encumbered.

  They had their backs to him as Torr walked towards them. They were still probably half-way between Torr and the next bailey entrance. All three were loading a cart which had a pack mule harnessed to the front, which was quite uninterested in anything other than the little patches of grass that it had not yet chewed.

  The first figure turned slightly as he and the other two loaded the supplies, heavily, onto the wagon. They were all wearing the padded tabard of Paegas Magistrate Militia. It was Raeknor.

  Torr laughed as he walked towards the three men now, more urgently. Of course, Cuhlead Tiri, as the magistrate of Paega, commanded a small force of militia officers responsible for breaking up tavern brawls which, certainly in the docks, was every day. However, that took a big brute of a man. The two other men with Raeknor were only slightly larger but, Torr guessed quickly, Cuhlead could not really spare his best men. If the magistrate’s best enforcers were killed in the upcoming battle with the gaestnips then most of Paega would probably be alight with more gusto than the bandits could manage themselves anyway.

  Raeknor had not spotted Torr yet. He was clearly breaking a sweat. His magistrate’s tabard was askew and dirty with marks left by the hessian sacks where he had just slid them off his chest, rather than throw them, with strength, onto the wagon.

  As he continued to cover the distance between them, it still did not explain to Torr why Raeknor was here. Surely he wasn’t going to fight was he? Raeknor gained his commission from the church school as a magistrate, which did not entitle him to a military command. Raeknor had certainly never excelled at military studies or weapons practice and, frankly, was shit on a horse. Maybe he was just overseeing the supplies, or something.

  Raeknor had paused to wipe his brow after he had flopped the last two sacks onto the wagon and was now broadly standing facing Torr. He was not one for manual labour either, so was looking pretty miserable with his lot.

  Raeknor paused and kept his hand above his eyebrows, furrowing his brow and squinting at Torr. By now Torr wasn’t too far away and, having already seen Raeknor, clearly had the element of surprise over his best friend. He knew Raeknor was very sharp of wit though. He had to be to pass the magistrate’s exams. Still, Torr was going to enjoy their verbal sparring on this one.

  The two men with Raeknor now also stopped, having become aware that Raeknor had stopped as well. They turned and, as they saw Torr approach, stood stiffly to attention and saluted. They were no older than
Torr or Raeknor but Torr did not recognise them so presumed they had not, unfortunately been given the same opportunity that Torr and Raeknor had so gratefully received. Unlike most of the students with whom Torr and Raeknor attended school, Torr realised (and he knew Raeknor did as well) that schooling and your situation was down to the luck of your birthright, not some god-given right to rule just because your father said so.

  Raeknor did not salute though. The two men next to him remained as they were but they looked alarmed at Raeknor’s response. Torr stopped, just short of them now and saluted back and then raised his eyebrows at Raeknor. This made the two men even more nervous.

  Raeknor, sighed audibly and rolled his eyes before saluting half heartedly. “Gentlemen, carry on” Torr said to the two men. “I would like a word here with...your sergeant is it?” The question was quite genuine as, truth be told, Torr did not know what rank Raeknor would hold in all of this either.

  “Yes sir, it’s Magistrate Millerson sir”, said one of the men, eager to please, referring to Raeknor by his surname. “Ahh..of course, Magistrate Millerson it is...yes”, said Torr, in a patronising way. The two men remained fixed to their stance, staring at Torr. “Yes gentleman, carry on” Torr had to say with some emphasise. “I doubt this wagon will load itself”.

  The two men lowered their hands, one saluted again for good measure and then looked at Raeknor, with an expression that suggested they probably would not see him again, this side of a public hanging. They then scurried back into the store room.

  Raeknor was still standing there saluting. Torr noticed that his friend had managed to raise his small finger away from the rest of his palm, indicating the insult that Torr had used on Raeknor when they saw each other last at the party at Home Manor, before Raeknor had passed out. He now had a grin on his face from ear to ear.