The Final Battle

by Stuart Daly

  Heavy on Caspan’s thoughts was the welfare of his friends at Rivergate. With any luck the fire front had succeeded in driving the Roon back to the Pass of Westernese. If so, it would have forced them to cross the river at Westford and Hollen, buying the defenders at Rivergate much precious time. Caspan hoped that the First Legion had managed to journey to Chester Hill before the blizzard set in, and that his friends had moved south to join them. But short of a messenger raven arriving, which was highly improbable in this weather anyway, there was no way of telling what had become of them. All he could do was hope that General Liam was in position and his friends were safe.

  Caspan was tempted to summon Frostbite and fly ahead of the army, but it would be far too dangerous. It would be next to impossible to navigate his way west in the blinding snow. With visibility reduced to little more than twenty yards, it would only be a matter of time until he got lost in the blizzard. Being a drake, Frostbite would have no problem surviving in the freezing conditions, but not so Caspan. No amount of clothing seemed to be able to ward back the biting chill. He feared he would perish if they failed to find adequate shelter. As frustrating as it was, it was safer to stay with the Duke and continue forward at a snail’s pace along the protected, woodland trails.

  Believing he could finally see light at the end of the long tunnel of war, Caspan relaxed for the first time in days. He rode slouched in his saddle, letting his mount choose its own path along the trail. The unrelenting pace and action of the past few days had caught up to him and hit him like a hammer, leaving him exhausted. Eyes heavy with sleep, Caspan was relieved when, an hour before dusk, they rode onto a section of field sheltered from the wind by the forest edge, and Bran gave the command to dismount and set up camp.

  Caspan and Master Scott pitched their tent as close to the trees as possible. Caspan’s cloak was soaked through. Even his tunic and breeches were damp, but he was beyond caring. Such concerns could wait until the morning. All that mattered now was that he rest. He stripped out of his wet clothes, rolled himself up in a makeshift bed of blankets and fell quickly into the deepest of sleeps.

  He woke the next day to the sound of the howling wind and driving snow. Wondering where Scott was, Caspan wrapped himself in a blanket and peered through the tent flap. An icy blast buffeted the camp. Caspan shivered from head to toe and wished he had never stirred from his warm cocoon. Black clouds raced across the sky, driven by the shrieking gale. Snow had piled high against the windward sides of tents. Soldiers hurried around the encampment, preparing for today’s march, but there was no sign of Scott.

  Caspan closed the flap and yawned groggily. To his surprise, he found his clothes in a neat bundle at the base of his bed. Strangely, they were warm, as if they’d been hung to dry before a fire all night. Saying a silent thank you to Scott, Caspan dressed and, lured by the smell of cooked bacon, pulled his cloak tightly around him and hurried to a nearby tent. The soldiers welcomed him inside and treated him to a plate of bacon rashers and fried eggs. It was only now that Caspan realised he’d skipped dinner last night. He greedily devoured three platefuls before a horn bellowed, giving the command to break camp.

  It wasn’t until after Caspan had pulled down his tent and readied his saddle bags that he found Scott. The Master was already mounted, and was chewing on a piece of bread as he made his way slowly through the camp towards Caspan.

  ‘Here,’ Scott said, ripping off a generous portion and tossing it to Caspan. ‘It’s not a bowl of warm porridge but it’s better than nothing.’

  Caspan caught the food. ‘Thanks, but I’ve already eaten. Some soldiers cooked bacon and eggs.’

  ‘Bacon and eggs! And here I was thinking you’d be starving.’

  Caspan proffered the bread back to the Master, but he waved it aside. Caspan tucked it inside a leather saddle bag for later. ‘I would have invited you, but I didn’t know where you’d snuck off to.’

  ‘While you were happily sleeping in and then gorging yourself, I was summoned to a meeting in the Duke’s tent, thank you very much,’ Scott said with an ironic smile. ‘We’re going to press on ahead and put in a full day’s travel, then set camp once night falls. We’ll continue at dawn, and should reach the First Legion before midday. Some of the officers wanted to continue travelling through the night and reach Chester Hill in the early hours of the morning, but it would leave the men exhausted and in no condition to fight a battle.’ Scott swung easily out of his saddle and started to untie a leather tarp from the rear of his mount. ‘Hopefully the message Roy Stewart sent to the Roon will stall the giants, holding them back until reinforced by the highlanders. Given this weather, though, there’s no guarantee the message will arrive safely or in time. All we can do is hope that everything falls into place.’ He tossed the sheet to Caspan. ‘Here, put this on. I don’t want you getting wet again or you’ll come down with pneumonia.’

  What Caspan thought was a rug was in fact an oiled leather travelling cloak. ‘Thanks,’ he said as he pulled it on over his woollen Brotherhood cloak and drew the hood over his head.

  ‘The rain and sleet will bead on it and run off, leaving your clothes nice and dry.’ Scott took a pair of thick leather gloves from his pack and handed them to Caspan. ‘Put these on, too. The last thing you want is to lose your fingers to frostbite. You won’t be much use with a bow then.’

  The gloves were lined with fur. Caspan nodded appreciatively as he pulled them on, but he doubted this all would be enough to stop the cold from seeping through to his bones. He’d only been outside for perhaps half an hour, and he was already freezing.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to today,’ Caspan moped as he climbed onto his saddle.

  The Master gave him a solemn look. ‘I don’t think any of us are, but we don’t have a choice. If we wait for this blizzard to pass we won’t make it to Chester Hill in time, and the First Legion will face the Roon on their own.’

  ‘I know, but it doesn’t make this weather any more bearable.’

  Scott leaned over and patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up. Before you know it winter will have passed, we would have defeated the Roon, and we’ll be sitting back in the House of Whispers, drinking some of Gramidge’s cider.’

  Caspan smiled half-heartedly. The House of Whispers seemed a world away right now. He flicked his reins and guided his mount through the camp, following the Master.

  In spite of his dry clothes, new cloak and full stomach, it wasn’t long before Caspan felt miserable again. Wishing this nightmare would hurry up and end, he trailed despondently behind the Duke and Dale through the white wilderness.

  An eternity seemed to have passed before Duke Bran gave the order to stop. Caspan was so depressed that he hadn’t even noticed it was approaching dusk, or that they were deep in a forest. Snow still fell heavily, but at least they were out of the wind. There were also some dry patches of earth, close to the tree trunks, beneath the spreading branches. This is where the men made their shelters, but rather than pitch their tents, they stretched their cowhide tarps between the trees. Sentries were posted, scouts sent out to forage for dry wood, and, after many failed attempts, fires lit. The weary men of the eastern legions then settled down for the night.

  Caspan and Master Scott tied their leather canvas between the boughs of two towering elm trees. They blanketed, tethered and fed their horses, then set about starting a fire and cooking a simple chowder.

  They prepared their meal in silence and waited patiently for the soup to cook. Soon their pot was full of flavoursome, simmering broth. Master Scott ladled them each a bowl. Caspan felt his spirits rise with each spoonful of the hot, yummy chowder.

  ‘You must be enjoying this by the way you’re wolfing it down,’ Scott commented, glancing at Caspan. ‘It’s good to see you smiling for the first time today.’

  ‘There hasn’t exactly been much to be happy about. It’s been the most miserable, longest day of my life. I didn’t think it would ever end.’

  T
he Master murmured in agreement as he poured himself and Caspan tankards of honey cider and placed them near the edge of the fire. ‘The Duke pushed us hard, but we’ve seen the worst. Tomorrow will be a lot easier. By midday we’ll be at Chester Hill.’ He leaned out and peered through a break in the canopy to inspect the night sky. ‘Besides, this blizzard won’t last forever. Hopefully it will start to die down.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Caspan muttered dourly. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before.’ As if to add credence to his words, a cold blast tore through the forest, buffeting the stretched canvas tarps and making campfires hiss and flicker.

  They sat in silence for some time, savouring each mouthful of the soup, when they looked up to find Prince Dale approaching their shelter.

  ‘Mmm, that smells fantastic,’ he said, rubbing his belly and staring enviously at their steaming pot. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Shepherd’s Chowder,’ Scott replied, shuffling over to make room for the Prince. He ladled Dale a bowl and handed it to him.

  Dale took a spoonful. Some of the liquid dribbled down his chin and ran into his beard. ‘That hit the spot,’ he beamed, wiping the fold of his cloak across his mouth. He shovelled down half a bowl before he arched an eyebrow curiously at Scott. ‘I didn’t know you were such a culinary master!’

  The treasure hunter grinned. ‘I much prefer eating to cooking.’ He patted a small leather pouch attached to his belt. ‘The trick is to never go on an adventure without a trusty supply of herbs and spices.’

  ‘I wish that’s all I had to worry about,’ Dale muttered. He looked around the encampment, making sure nobody could overhear their discussion. ‘Father’s called a final meeting with his officers. I’m sure he wanted me present, but I’ve conveniently wandered off.’

  Caspan left his spoon hovering near his lips. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Dale regarded him levelly for a moment. ‘Not a word of this leaves this tent.’ Caspan and Scott nodded. The Prince lowered his bowl. ‘I need a break,’ he whispered. ‘I’m mentally and physically drained. I saw my reflection in a stream earlier today, and I could barely recognise myself. I’m only eighteen, but I saw my father staring back at me.’

  ‘I thought you’d be proud,’ Caspan commented.

  ‘I am.’ Dale stared distantly at the steam rising from the pot. ‘But I don’t want to become my father. Don’t get me wrong – I think he’s a great man, and I have the utmost respect for him. But war has consumed his life. It’s zapped the merriment and joy from him, leaving nothing but a withered husk behind. And I don’t want that to happen to me. Maybe I’m too much of a dreamer and an idealist, but I want peace for Lochinbar. I’ve seen enough bloodshed and suffering to last me a lifetime. Hopefully the agreement between Father and Roy Stewart will bring an end to any future conflicts between Andalon and Caledon. Then we can focus on strengthening ties between our countries, promoting stronger diplomatic relations and creating trade agreements. That’s what I want for the future.’ He glanced sullenly around the camp. ‘Not this.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Caspan filled the Prince a tankard of honey cider, then raised his in a toast. ‘Here’s to the end of the war and lasting peace.’

  ‘To lasting peace,’ Dale and Scott repeated, and raised their drinks to their lips.

  CHAPTER 22

  SHADES OF GREY

  As the evening progressed, Dale and Scott entered into a deep conversation about hunting. Although Caspan found the topic interesting, he knew little about it and thought he’d use this as an opportunity to check on Brett. He filled a bowl, grabbed a spoon and headed off through the night.

  He hadn’t seen the prisoner since they’d first arrived in Bran’s camp, and he couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for his treatment. He had, after all, delivered Brett to the Duke. As much as he despised the traitorous former general, Caspan wanted to make sure he wasn’t being beaten or mistreated.

  He found Brett sitting against a towering oak at the far side of the camp, wrapped in a thick cloak. His hands and feet were tied, but not bound to the tree, allowing him some movement. Three guards sat close by, playing a game of cards.

  ‘Do you mind if I talk to the prisoner?’ Caspan asked.

  One of the soldiers glanced up at him. ‘You’re the lad who handed him over to the Duke, aren’t you?’ he asked, and Caspan nodded. ‘Normally we wouldn’t let anyone near him, but I think we can make an exception for you. Just leave your sword here. Brett’s hands are tied, but I wouldn’t put anything past him.’

  Caspan unfastened his sword belt and left his weapon with the soldier before striding over to Brett. He regarded him for a moment, noting that though he appeared cold and miserable, the prisoner didn’t appear to have been mistreated. Brett studied Caspan with his piercing blue eyes, then snorted derisively and turned away.

  Caspan placed the bowl near his feet. ‘Here. Not even traitors deserve to starve to death.’

  ‘Stop or you’ll make me cry,’ Brett replied icily. He looked at the food suspiciously. ‘It isn’t poisoned?’

  ‘I’d never stoop to your level,’ Caspan said curtly. ‘Besides, that would be too easy. I’m sure the King has a cell ready for you to rot in.’

  ‘How generous of him.’ Brett shuffled closer to the bowl, picked it up and sniffed its contents. He turned up his nose. ‘Smells like swamp muck. Still, it’s better than nothing.’ He glanced up at Caspan and motioned at his wrists with a jerk of his chin. ‘You could make this a little easier for me.’

  Caspan stared at him flatly. ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  ‘Oh well, you can’t blame a man for trying.’ Brett rested his back against the tree and placed the bowl on his lap. He picked up his spoon and started wolfing down the chowder. He paused and glanced self-consciously at Caspan. ‘What? You haven’t seen someone eat before?’

  Caspan knelt before the prisoner. ‘I just don’t understand … why did you join the Roon?’

  ‘And you wouldn’t, even if I told you.’

  Caspan held the man’s gaze. ‘Try me.’

  Brett shrugged. ‘The opportunity presented itself, and I took hold of it. There, are you satisfied?’

  ‘That explains nothing,’ Caspan replied, his disgust for the former general building. ‘You betrayed your own people!’

  Brett left his spoon hovering near his lips. ‘My own people! Don’t make me laugh. And don’t you dare judge me! You know nothing about me or of the history of this kingdom.’ He shovelled the spoonful into his mouth and slurped angrily. ‘You think the Roon are evil, and you can’t fathom why I joined forces with them. But let me tell you this – there is a fare worse evil in Andalon than the Roon. You think you’re fighting the ultimate battle of good versus evil, that you’re fighting on the side of light, with King Rhys’s noble legions defending the realm against the savage horde from The Wild. But there are shades of grey that you can’t even begin to see.’

  ‘Don’t you dare try to mask your betrayal behind riddles!’ Caspan said contemptuously.

  ‘Riddles! I speak of truths, boy; truths as old as this forest.’

  Caspan sighed impatiently, but part of him wanted to hear what the prisoner had to say. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You accuse me of betraying my people, of committing treason. But what of a king who seized control of the throne by slaughtering his rivals?’ Brett pointed his spoon at Caspan. ‘There’s my shade of grey.’

  ‘What are you talking about? King Rhys is a just ruler. He –’

  ‘Stop before you make me sick!’ Brett interrupted. ‘He’s a MacDain. The sins of his ancestors taint his crown.’ He cocked his head at Caspan’s baffled expression. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?

  ‘What sins?’

  Brett smiled enigmatically. ‘More shades of grey, boy. Beneath the splendour of his crown, Rhys sits upon a throne stained in blood. His ancestor, Elric MacDain, seized it after defeating Ulther Blood
crest at the Battle of Morton Spike.’

  ‘But that was a fair fight,’ Caspan retorted. ‘Besides, Elric had nothing to do with Ulther’s death. He was thrown from his horse and trampled on the battlefield.’

  ‘But what of Ulther’s family and his bloodline?’ Brett asked. ‘History is written by the victors. It has a tendency to omit certain acts that might present its fabricated heroes in a negative light. Elric’s scribes did a fine job in recording his exploits during the Battle of Morton Spike.’ Brett’s lips tightened. ‘But find me an official historical text that tells of how Elric ordered assassins to hunt down and murder Ulther’s wife, children and relatives. There are two sides to every story, boy. A wise man learns to listen to both.’

  Caspan was shocked by this. He didn’t know much about the history of Andalon, but he’d only ever heard people talk of the MacDains with the highest regard. And he’d certainly never heard any stories of Elric ordering the elimination of Ulther’s bloodline. ‘Even if what you’re saying is true, it happened over three hundred years ago,’ he said. ‘And what’s any of this got to do with you?’

  Brett glared at him. ‘It has everything to do with me! In spite of Elric’s attempt to wipe out the Bloodcrests, one of Ulther’s sons managed to escape and was spirited away to Saxstein. He was my great-great-grandfather.’ He squared his shoulders proudly. ‘I am Ulther’s sole, direct descendant. Revenge courses through my veins. I won’t stop until I’ve reclaimed what is rightfully mine. One day, I’ll sit upon my throne in Briston.’

  Caspan stared at the prisoner, dumbstruck. He took a moment to compose himself before asking, ‘But at what cost?’

  ‘I’ll side with any army that rises against the MacDains.’ Brett studied Caspan intently, his blue eyes narrowing. ‘You’re still wondering how I could do such a thing; why I refuse to bury the past and am prepared to go to any length to achieve my goal. So you would have me deny my heritage? You’d have me feign fealty to the descendant of a butcher? I may be many things, boy, but I’m no hypocrite.’ He lowered his gaze and stirred his broth. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to eat the rest of my meal in silence. It’s one of the few pleasures I have remaining in life.’