by P D Ceanneir
‘I would not worry about him. He can look after himself. He may even have the Gredligg Orrinn already’ said Morden in an upbeat tone.’
‘Yes, he may.’
Both of them started as loud knocking on the study door made them both turn in that direction. Morden was on his feet in an instant and crossed the room to wrench open the door.
‘I’m sorry to intrude, my lord,’ said the voice of Captain Alhone of the Countess’s private Army of Haplann Rangers, ‘but a messenger has just…’
‘Let him in!’ shouted the countess.
There were the sounds of shuffling outside in the corridor and a man in a dirty tunic and breeches pushed past the captain and the regent. He bowed towards Bleudwed.
‘Many pardons at the intrusion, my lady.’
Bleudwed waved away the apology, ‘its fine, Jimson, what do you have to report? You were not due back from Dulan-Tiss for days.’
‘I never got there, Ma’am, the Vallkytes are marching along the old drove roads, thousands of them. They were on the outskirts of Haplann when I found them and turned back, two days ago.’
‘What!’ this from Morden.
‘It is true, my lord.’
Bleudwed walked out from behind her desk, brushing a hand through her long curly blonde hair. ‘Two days. That brings them close to Caphun.’ She regarded her regent, ‘Morden, Captain Alhone, raise the garrison and man the walls. Bring everyone inside from the local farmlands, including their livestock and burn any unharvested crops. Go now!’
Both men quickly disappeared and Bleudwed heard their footsteps running down the hall. Jimson looked at the countess wondering why she gave him no instructions.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Jimson?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘You? You’re going down to the kitchens to get a good feed and then a good bath.’
The colt shuffled his head and his long white mane flopped from side to side. Sergeant Herun of the Bellmen soothed the fidgety horse with shushing sounds before applying more of the ghastly smelling tincture to his ears.
‘That should kill off the little buggers,’ he said, ‘Marsh Ticks hate grandma’s old Hops Liniment, sir. Arcun knows how he got so many.’
Beside him, General Elkin, the new Lord of Laden Howe, wrinkled his nose. ‘I think your grandma had no sense of smell. Yet her potions always work. How long before he’s running through the fields again?’
Herun shrugged, ‘a good couple of day at least.’
Elkin glanced over at the other three mares he had in the stalls. Two of them still had Haypox, a rare equine disease in unhealthy colts not in mares, and their eyes still looked red and streaming with tears. He sighed and hoped the remedies of Herun’s Grandma cured everything he said they would.
Both men closed up the stall and exited the large barn. It was late in the evening, the sun was low, insects hovered in the dying light above the swaying grass fields in the distance, shimmers of gossamer spider webs danced in the fading light and the lolling call of his cattle rolled through the warm evening air, too warm for this time of year but he was not complaining.
Elkin took in a long deep breath and let it out slowly, ‘retirement does not get any better than this.’
Herun had to agree. Life here in the quiet and peaceful lands of the Aln Plain was slow and steady, yet there was no shortage of things to do. The General’s private army of Bellmen and their families lived in the tenant houses of the surrounding village of Laden Howe and they tended the vast tracts of farmland that the Elkin now owned as their lord. Cattle, sheep and the occasional pig livestock took a lot of looking after, but the large herd of Aln Stallions was the general’s main pride and joy and for most of the day he would be out in the fields with them.
‘Aye, sir, it is,’ said the grizzly old sergeant, who knew the general the longest and was probably his closest friend. Herun missed his home town of Bell in the south-eastern lands of Toll-marr. Due to the general’s defection to the Roguns after the battle of Cosshead, King Kasan now classed Elkin as a traitor to the Vallkyte state and his lands of Storridge confiscated. To his credit, and the loyalty his soldiers hold for him, the Bellmen exiled themselves also along with their wives and children to join him in Laden Howe. Anything was better than facing the persecution under the heel of the Vallkytes.
Herun noted the general frown as he looked south. He squinted that way himself and caught the movement of a lone rider amongst the large grass fronds.
‘Who’s calling at this hour?’ mumbled Elkin.
Both men walked towards the rider and concern showed on their faces when he flopped forwards onto the horse’s neck. They sprinted to catch him as he fell off the saddle and laid him on the ground. He was only a boy of about fifteen summers.
‘Go get some water, Herun!’ said Elkin, ‘Alright lad, you’ll be fine.’
The boy was dirty and, just like his mount, glazed in sweat. Herun returned with a jug of water from the kitchens of the big house next to the barn. Several of the female servants ran out of the house to offer assistance and more of the Bellmen rushed in from the fields when they saw the commotion.
The boy gulped the water and almost choked. Elkin steadied the jug and told him harshly to go easy. Damn, the boy was thirsty!
‘Soldiers…!’ said the boy as he pushed away the jug, ‘I have to get word to general Elkin!’
‘You have found him,’ said Herun calmly as he nodded towards Elkin.
‘Take it slow, lad,’ said Elkin, ‘what soldiers?’
‘They are all dead!’ shouted the boy, ‘me and Pa found them, the fort was empty!’
‘What fort?’ Elkin’s eyes widened.
‘Fort Novar, the one that guards the Southron Pass. All of the Jertiani soldiers there are dead, slaughtered. My father is a trapper out of Coen; we were taking the north glen into the Tattoium Ridge for a beaver hunt, but stopped off at the fort to get supplies.’
Elkin nodded. Fort Novar was relatively new as a fort that guarded the treacherous Southron Pass. In the past, trappers mainly used it as a supply station because they tended to stay in the mountains all through the hunting season.
The boy continued, ‘they’re all dead, sir…gone!’
Elkin nodded and remained calm, ‘all right my lad. Did you see any of the soldiers responsible?’
The boy shook his head, ‘no sir, but Pa found tracks leading towards the Perwood.’
‘They will be using the woods for cover,’ Herun mused.
‘That’s what Pa thought, he sent me to warn you while he went to find General Balaan at Turnactown.’
Elkin stood up and started issuing orders. ‘Mistress Gatha,’ he said to one of the elderly servants who was amongst the onlookers from the general’s house, ‘get the lad inside and fed. Herun, raise the garrison and get the men kitted out in full battle gear. I want all of the servants to bolt doors and shutters. Mistress Jemma, bring out my sword!’
There was a flurry of motion as everyone rushed from the scene to carry out their lordship’s orders.
Morden reined in his mount and she skidded on the cobbled road, kicking up stoor into fine white puffs. Beside him, the multitude of civilians filed along the Drove Road towards Caphun carrying their belongings in their arms or in small hay carts. Most of them were of the age to know what it was like during the early days of the civil war so some urgency showed amongst the fear and determination on their faces.
‘You there!’ hollered Morden to a lieutenant who was helping a burly farmer lift two children onto a cart along with a satchel of clothes.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said standing rigid with his arms at his side. Daylight was fading fast, but Morden could still see the wide-eyed terror on the soldier’s face as he looked up at the countess’s Regent. Morden did not have time to change, so the brightly coloured clothing he wore caused him to stand out amongst the crowd.
‘What part of the countess’s orders made any mention of personal belongings?’ Morden s
napped, clearly annoyed.
‘Ah..well..sir…I…’ stuttered the officer.
‘Food and livestock!’ shouted Morden, ‘nothing else. If these people complain then give them a dunt on the head, but for the sake of the Earth Mother, sort it out and get them moving faster or an army of Vallkyte will be ripping the clothes off the womenfolk!’
The officer’s jaw dropped. People in the passing crowd cried out in shock.
‘Yes sir,’ the soldier saluted, ‘right away sir.’
Morden turned his horse away from the soldier as he started shouting at the crowd to move faster. Morden cast his sight along the far horizon towards the south west. The backdrop of the Tattoium Ridge in the distance displayed a canvas of whites and greys showing the columns of dark clouds clearly, which rose up from the burning fields as the Caphun Rangers fired the crops
As he looked around, he saw six of the Rangers galloping his way. All of them were fully dressed in mail, chest and bracer armour. They wore the dark blue and white livery surcoat of a White Caphun Hart rising on its hind legs. The first two reined in as they approached the regent and the lead officer saluted.
‘What news?’ Morden asked before the others had time to stop.
‘The eastern approaches are blocked, sir,’ said the leader of the troop. Morden had sent them east several hours ago to gather information on strength, numbers and position of the approaching Vallkyte host. ‘I judge an army of ten thousand marches this way with at least five siege engines and an impressively large baggage train.’
Morden sighed, ‘siege engines! They are serious then.’
Another of the troop spoke. It was difficult to see their faces in the growing gloom and their armoured head coverings, but Morden knew most of them by voice anyway.
‘I stuck to the slopes of the Wyani highlands while they crossed the border,’ he said, ‘the cavalry vans of heavy horse were displaying the standard of the Vallkyte king.’
Morden nodded, ‘seems that the Haplann Treaty is now null and void. How soon before they get here?’
The leader spoke again, ‘the van would be here in a matter of hours, but they don’t seem to be in any rush. The rest, along with the siege pieces, will be here by mid-morning tomorrow.’
‘Well done,’ said Morden, ‘help these people move a little quicker. I will take this information back to the countess.’
It took him the better part of an hour to gallop back to the town. He was dusty and a little tired as he entered the gate, which was bustling with soldiers and armed civilians as they prepared the defences of the battlements and boarded up the windows of houses and official buildings. He took the cobbled main street directly to the castle stables where he dismounted, groaning as he stretched his back. Over by the far side of the courtyard was a troop of about twenty Rogun cavalry tending to their horses. He had no time to ponder why they were here. He ran into the main entrance to the castle and discovered the countess in the main drawing room wearing fine meshed mail and a surcoat depicting the Haplann crest. Her hair was tied back into a bun to reveal her long smooth neck and elegant facial features. He had to admit that the countess always looked beautiful no matter what she wore.
He was about to divulge the information he had just learnt when he notice a Rogun soldier standing by the fireplace. It was obvious he had just barged into a conversation. He noted that he soldier was a captain, due to the red sash he wore over his padded jupon and the knee-high black boots with silver spurs, which explained the other soldiers outside. They both stopped talking and looked his way. The countess looked worried.
‘Oh…I’m sorry. I…’ said Morden. Bleudwed waved him to silence and nodded towards the officer.
‘This is Captain Ravel of the Red Duke’s Own Cavalry,’ Bleudwed introduced the captain to Morden. ‘Captain, meet the Regent Morden, eighteenth Atyd of Triel.’
Both men greeted each other with a nod. Ravel was a lean fellow with a balding head and a hooked nose. Yet he had a commanding, authoritarian presence about him that Morden recognised from most of the Rogun officers stationed at the Pander Pass.
‘The Atyd I have heard of. A pleasure my lord,’ said Ravel cordially with a bow.
‘The captain has just arrived from the pass only a few minutes before you, Morden,’ explained the countess, ‘he was about to explain to me why the Red Duke is leading a host to come to our aid.’ She said this last comment with some annoyance. Ravel passed her a perplexed look.
‘Eh?’ said Morden, ‘his grace would only be able to raise four thousand men from the Pass, there is a Vallkyte army of ten thousand heading this way.’ He explained to the countess all he had heard from his scouts.
‘Rest assured my lady, that his grace with be here before the enemy arrive,’ said Ravel, reassuringly.
‘But that’s the problem, captain, I don’t want him here! The walls of Caphun are stronger than you think. The Red Duke need not concern himself with us.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Ravel shook his head, ‘you sent word not four hours ago for aid?’
‘What?’
‘Yes, you sent your man…um ... Jimson was his name.’
Morden looked at the countess who was staring back at the captain with mouth agape. ‘You sent Jimson?’ he asked.
‘No, not to the Pass, I sent him to watch Aquen. I wanted to know when Nethroin made his move on the Eternal Forest.’
Morden nodded and was grateful that the countess had the same concerns about his home as he did.
‘Captain,’ Morden asked, ‘what did this Jimson look like?’
‘Um...medium height, late twenties, with short brown hair and scar on his left cheek.’
Morden and Bleudwed shared a startled look.
‘That’s not my man, we can assume that Jimson is dead,’ said the countess. She spoke to the captain, ‘you need to get back to the Red Duke as quickly as possible.’
‘My lady?’
‘Damn it, man!’ yelled the countess, ‘you have been given false information. Leave now and inform his grace that he is marching into a trap!’
Bronwyn, Queen of the Falesti, who were the indigenous peoples of the vast expanse of trees known as the Eternal Forest, rode along the three-mile long wall of felled trees that stretched along this section of the woodland’s western border. All around her was the sweet music of the female Falesti as they sung to encourage the walls of timber to fuse and harden. The magic within their voices and the subtleness of the chants made the branches sway where no wind touched them.
‘This section is complete, your majesty,’ said one of her aides who accompanied her along with twenty of her personal guards, the Wyvern Faial.
‘And the eastern border?’ she asked as she scanned the walls. The upper section, about fifty feet from the ground, had an elaborate series of pathways behind the parapet. Dozens of archers walked up and down the path as they looked over the wall and through the trees towards the wider plain to the west.
‘Is also complete, but we can take a trip there if you wish to continue the inspection?’
She shook her head, ‘no, no need.’
Deeper into the forest, about hundred and twenty yards from their position, was another series of timber walls coupled with several archery redoubts. These were older defences constructed during the uncertain times of the first civil war and Baron Telmar’s reign of terror.
‘Are the repairs on the original defences still continuing?’ she asked.
‘Yes, your majesty, your husband already has the eastern rim manned and strengthened. He felt it was more important to complete that area first because of the threat from the Vallkyte Klingspur.’
Bronwyn smiled. Atyd Barnum may have his faults but the Falesti queen’s consort certainly knew how to rule in her name and protect her people. She nodded to herself.
‘Very well, the inspection is at an end. I am confident that…’ she stopped and looked off towards the new wall. One of the archers there was making a strange gurgling noise. H
e was clutching his throat. Something long and pale protruded from his neck.
‘What the…?’ she began to say.
Another archer flinched and collapsed, a second spun full circle as an arrow struck his shoulder and he yelled.
‘Gods! Stand to!’ she yelled and then the air was filled with loud shouting as more arrows were lobbed over the wall to fall around them. Two of her Wyvern fell from their mounts as they closed around her and extracted swords.
All motion slowed, arrows buzzed through the air like angry hornets. The timber walls bulged under the feet of the archers as they scrambled along the walkway and returned fire. The distortion of the timber wall grew some more and then suddenly exploded inwards splintering in all directions sending Falesti archers into the air. The force of the explosion swept through the queen’s little group knocking them all from their saddles.
Bronwyn struck the ground hard; a horse’s hoof nearly stomped on her head. Her ears had a loud ringing noise in them and she shook her head to clear it. Dizzy, disorientated, she still reached for her curved sword on her hip. Debris rained around her, wood dust and ripped leaves fluttered down from the canopy. She managed to rise to her knees and then saw the body of her aide beside her. A large splinter had impaled his chest.
Billowing dust obscured the breach in the timber wall, yet black-clad soldiers rushed into the gap attacking her Falesti. One of the intruders was tall and slim, he wore the strangest black armour she had ever seen, it was like a second skin and a white orb glowed on his forehead.
Several Falesti soldiers ran towards him. He dodged their lunges with very fast movements, disarmed one by gripping his sword arm and twisting it until his arm snapped and then used the sword to impale another before snapping the neck of the first. At this point the warrior had not extracted his sword but, as the queen’s Wyvern got to their feet, he unsheathed the weapon and rushed forward cutting down two of the women with quick precise jabs and skewering the third with a long limbed thrust.
A groggy Bronwyn stood up, raised her sword and had it knocked from her grip. The warrior then struck her hard on the side of her head with an armoured fist. She fell to the ground with pain flaring in her head and bright spots sparking in her vision.
