“No,” asserted Gwillamer, “there’s no doubt that whoever this Kolsko is, and wherever he came from, he’s been a God-send to us all and I believe we need to pay close attention to anything he says.”
“I’ll have to meet him myself,” said Stent. “I’m sure there’ll be an All-Clan Conclave as soon as the Narthani have returned to Eywell Province and don’t appear to be contemplating another invasion too soon. We need to be sure Culich brings this Kolsko to the conclave.”
“I agree,” said Hewell, “but for now, three of us need to get back to our men. They should be ready to ride by now. Stent and I need to reach Parthmal before the garrison gets word of what happened here today.”
“And you, Cadoc. You get back to your province,” said Stent. “The Tri-Clan Alliance has done the most to turn back the Narthani and has taken the most casualties, except for the Morelanders. Get your men home and back to their families. I only hope the rest of us can do the same soon.”
The four men took turns clasping forearms or hands—the customs varied among clans—and rode off in two directions: Cadoc Gwillamer to rejoin his men and head south toward home, and the other three hetmen to gather their men in an attempt to strike more blows against the Narthani.
Parthmal, Eywell Province
One day later, in the middle of the night, Welman Stent, Lordum Hewell, and a dozen of their senior men crowded into a makeshift shelter of blankets and hides held up by clansmen—the men pressed together around a small fire that reflected off their faces. They had pushed their horses as hard as they dared. Plus, Stent had sent a hundred men with extra horses riding even harder to maneuver themselves in advance of the Narthani force’s line of march—with the purpose of preventing messengers from reaching Parthmal. The main Stent and Hewell force had passed south of the Narthani army the previous afternoon, but they didn’t know whether word had reached Parthmal about Moreland City.
“Men sent ahead confirm earlier reports about the Narthani encampment,” said Stent, his face grim but determined, his shaved head hidden by a leather helm with inlaid iron strips that reflected the firelight. “It’s just east of the village of Parthmal. The village has no obvious defenses, but the encampment has a six-foot-high earthen berm three hundred yards on a side, with twenty-foot towers on the corners and midway between the corners. Under each tower is a cannon, though our men couldn’t see if these were manned.
“At least two of the tower platforms must have fires within them, since our men could see light and the outlines of men. Maybe four or more men in each tower. There also must be firing positions on the inside of the berm, since they saw a few men’s heads and shoulders outlined against lights within the encampment. However, they’re likely just individuals standing in position, instead of a continuous rampart, since those men never moved from the few places where they were seen.
“There’s a single opening in the berm—on the western side, with a wooden gate attached to tree trunks sunk into the ground. We assume the gate will be closed and barred.”
“And no sign of any watchmen outside of the encampment or moving patrols?” asked a grizzled clansman.
“None they saw. But we need to be aware that our men could have missed them. That’s why we’ll start the attack only when we’re all in position and there’s no sign the Narthani are on alert. We know what can happen to men attacking a Narthani position that’s ready for it, so if there’s any sign they’re expecting us, we’ll abort the attack.”
Stent turned to face a lanky, black-bearded clansman. “Wym, you have a critical task and the most dangerous. I don’t want to commit everyone to the attack unless we think we’ve surprised them and can breach the berm. Once you commit, your hundred men will ride for the part of the berm between the southeast corner and the adjacent tower in the middle of the south berm. You have ten men carrying shielded lanterns. Once they reach the top of the berm and see that they can ride down the other side, they’re to uncover the lanterns and drop them on top of the berm. We’ll assume that if they survive to reach the top, then they’ve surprised the Narthani. Another seven hundred men will wait until they see the signal and then follow. Eight hundred of our men inside the encampment are about all the area will hold, and the rest of the men will stay outside in case they’re needed.”
Wym Terrell’s solemn expression conveyed he knew his and his men’s fate if the Narthani were waiting, but he nodded. “We’ll do our best to open the way. We’re only lucky the Narthani evidently didn’t want to dig too deep. If there was a ditch in front of the berm, we’d never be able to try this.”
The soil for the berm had been dug from the adjacent ground. But instead of digging a three- to four-foot-deep ditch, the builders had taken the easier route and kept to looser soil on the surface. The Stent and Hewell riders would face only a half to one-foot drop about thirty-feet wide before reaching the berm and urging their mounts up the berm’s slope—hoping their momentum would be sufficient to reach the top.
Three hours later, Wym Terrell peered through a thin screen of trees at the Parthmal encampment. Light provided by the stars and by Haedan, the smaller moon, at half phase gave enough light for his acclimated eyes to examine the berm two hundred yards away. He estimated it would take them half a minute to reach the berm, starting from a standstill and pushing their horses to a full gallop. Half a minute. He wondered, if he were a Narthani at watch, how long it would take to hear the hoofbeats, see the clansmen coming, register what he saw or heard, give the alarm, and fire whatever weapons were at the ready. Half a minute.
He looked behind him. Twenty yards to either side and stretching back into the brush sat his hundred mounted men. They had walked their horses the final mile, each man with a hand at his mount’s muzzle to suppress neighs, all metal tied down or wrapped to minimize sound. No one had spoken a word, not even to whisper.
It was time. Terrell climbed onto his horse and signaled to those near him to do the same. Men mounted in a wave stretching to the end of the column. Terrell drew his sword. Another wave passed to the rear as men drew blades. No one carried a musket or a lance, both being too cumbersome to wield in the dark and with horses packed so tight. It would be sword and pistol.
Looking back, Terrell saw stars and moonlight reflecting off steel. There could be no hesitation. Any Narthani on watch, if they looked in the right direction, might see a multitude of faint flashes, as if fireflies infested the sparse woods.
Terrell turned to look ahead and urged his horse forward. After fifty yards, he assumed all of the horses behind him were in motion, and he spurred his mount into a full gallop by one hundred yards. No Caedelli spoke, but the sound of four hundred hooves rose from a faint rumble to a thunderous roar.
Munjak Salamun hated the last watch tour. Since regular duty followed immediately, it made the day seem endless before he could sleep again. Also, he hated his unit’s current duty posting—sitting in a forward encampment with few amenities and having to play nice with the Eywellese contingent sharing the post. He hated the Eywellese. Not that he knew many of them, but he was more comfortable with his Narthani compatriots—at least, those he came with in the final infantry levy from Narthon.
In contrast to his opinion of the islanders, Salamun appreciated the island’s weather. Narthon was bone dry with winds and dust, except twice a year when wind shifts brought drenching rains and suffocating humidity. In contrast, the weather on Caedellium was closer to perfect than a Narthani at home could imagine: moderate humidity; rain, when it came, relatively short-lived compared to week-long seasonal spells at home; constant gentle winds; and daytime temperatures usually varying from a little chill to not quite hot. One of the other men had heard the climate was due to the island’s location in global wind patterns and the moderating effect of the surrounding ocean.
Salamun glanced up at the eastern horizon, the sky turning a light blue, with pink and yellow tinges on clouds announcing the coming arrival of the sun. Another hour until the night watch wo
uld be relieved and he and the other men could line up for morning meal.
Then, as he faced south, something caught his eye. A glint of light off . . . what? There, another one, then more. He squinted and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the lightening sky. There was movement—a waving or rippling of shapes and shadows at the forest edge. He noticed a sound like distant thunder getting closer but too quickly for a weather system. Suddenly, his eyes made out horses. Horses with riders. Riders holding swords. Ten seconds passed from his first notice until he shouted out an alert and fired his musket at whatever was coming his way.
Wym Terrell was one of the ten men carrying shielded lanterns. Nine of them made it to the top of the berm. A musket round struck one lantern carrier. Probably from the first guard to see us, Terrell thought. There had been a flurry of other musket shots, though no cannon and nothing else to stop their charge across the shallow depression formed when the Narthani had dug the berm. The clansmen spurred their mounts up the berm’s outer slope and poured over the top. A few horses fell or struggled, but most managed the slope with little problem. At the top, Terrell and the other eight men uncovered their lanterns and dropped them.
The few men on watch were swept away by the tide of horsemen. Of the hundred clansmen in the first group, eighty-eight rode down the inner slope and into the encampment that had just begun to stir. Close behind came seven hundred riders who had waited for the signal. The attack caught the Narthani and the Eywellese by surprise.
In the dark, the clansmen roared through lines of tents and small buildings. They assumed anyone on foot was Narthani or Eywellese—to be cut down with sword or pistol. In the confusion and darkness, no organized resistance was possible, as a seemingly endless stream of horsemen surged through the encampment.
The clansmen gave no quarter.
Twenty minutes later, Welman Stent and Lordum Hewell watched the last of the encampment and the adjacent village of Parthmal’s buildings added to the conflagration. The light from fires was bright enough to read small print or identify the hair color and the beard length on scattered bodies.
“I think we’ve done all the damage we can do here,” said Hewell.
“Right,” said Stent. “I’m tempted to go farther, but prudence says we take this victory and get back to safer territory. However, I think I’ll send few dozen men to scout toward Hanslow. As for the rest of us, let’s gather up whatever firearms we find and see if we can hitch up the Narthani cannon to those small wagons we’ve seen them use. Then we’ll go directly east, sending scouts well ahead to find the Narthani army and the clans harassing them. Once we find the other clans, we’ll assess whether we’re needed or can head back to Moreland City.”
CHAPTER 3: ESCAPE
Hanslow, Eywell Province Capital
Anarynd Moreland watched with conflicted feelings as the Narthani army left Hanslow and moved east toward Moreland. After two and a half months of Narthani language immersion since her capture, she understood enough of Erdelin’s conversations with subordinates to gather that the Narthani had prepared a major move into Moreland.
She worried because her clan and family lay in the Narthani’s path. However, she felt thankful when she heard Erdelin would be away for several sixdays or more, a time she wouldn’t share his bed.
She refused to accept that she might never escape—a capitulation made by many other captive women such as Gwyned Walstyn, the Preddi slave who had advised Anarynd on that first night to do whatever necessary to survive. The two women had become friends in the manner that happened when sharing what they couldn’t share with others.
Gwyned’s master was a Narthani supply officer—one of the breed that armies depended on to keep functioning but who was not part of a fighting unit. He had deigned to give Gwyned a name after she bore a child, a name Gwyned never told Anarynd.
After being a Narthani slave for two years and with a half-Narthani child, Gwyned didn’t foresee a better future. Her family was dead or scattered, but she had assumed that whatever her future held would be on Caedellium—she hadn’t considered that her master might take her away from the island forever. That assumption proved false, when, two months ago, her master informed her that when he returned to Narthon, he intended to take her and the child with him—a promise given as a reward but received as a sentence.
Anarynd had risked speaking to Gwyned about her thoughts of escape—something Gwyned discouraged because of the unlikely success and the consequences. In the last two months, Anarynd had met a score of other Caedelli women slaves and a few from lands beyond Caedellium and brought to the island with their masters—both military and tradesmen. A quiet network had formed among the women, spreading news and providing a semblance of emotional and physical support.
One secret shared among a few women, and only among those most trusted, was a brew made from the bark of a native Caedellium root, which reduced the chances of pregnancy. It was a dangerous game. If a master decided a woman was barren, he might discard her to the brothels. Gwyned began taking the herb after the birth of her child—hoping the one child would convince her master of her fertility and allow her to delay more children as long as possible. Anarynd had initially been so despondent that Gwyned feared she would attempt suicide, but sharing the herb’s secret had assuaged Anarynd’s dread of becoming pregnant.
On the occasions when their masters were away, Anarynd, Gwyned, and other women spent a few quiet hours together, either in silence or talking of inconsequential matters—as if to pretend they were back at their original homes.
On one of those days, just past sundown, six women sat under trees adjacent to Erdelin’s villa. A sixday after the army had left, rumors spread that the army was moving slowly through Moreland, burning towns—but with no major fighting yet.
A ratcheting up of the city’s background noise interrupted the women’s recollections of home. They heard shouts of many voices raised in emotion but didn’t know the cause. One of the women served an officer of the town defenses, and she left to find out more news. She returned walking fast and breathing hard.
“Word is spreading that there was a battle at Moreland City, and the Narthani may have lost!”
Anarynd’s heart jumped into her throat. Moreland defeated the host that left here? That’s not possible, even if other clans came to Moreland’s aid! Or is it possible?
“Are you sure that’s what you heard?” pressed Gwyned.
“Yes, yes, and more. Word just came that the clans overran a Narthani and Ewywellese supply base in Parthmal, and clan riders were seen only a few miles from here. The entire remaining garrison—Narthani and Eywellese—are called to the defenses. I heard them say the clans might attack this city.”
“But the clans couldn’t possibly take Hanslow,” argued Gwyned. “Not with the defenses, the cannon, and so many Narthani and Eywellese fighting men.”
Suddenly, they could hear Narthani horns and drums beating rhythms.
“Calling to stations—that’s what it means,” said another woman. “Maybe the clans can’t take the city, but that’s the signal to man all defenses.”
Suddenly, Anarynd knew this might be her only good chance to escape.
“Will all the men be at the defenses?” she asked.
“At first. If they decide an attack isn’t imminent, then they’ll reduce those standing to.”
“The defenses of Hanslow are mainly on the three sides of the town away from the river, aren’t they?” asked Anarynd.
“Yes,” answered a puzzled Gwyned. “Why? The bluff on the river bank is too steep for a major attack, so they only keep a few men on the walls.”
“Does anyone know of a way through the defenses from inside without being seen?”
“Anarynd! I hope you aren’t thinking of trying to escape!” warned Gwyned. “You would never make it out, and if you did . . . then what?”
The woman who had gone for news spoke up. “I know a way. Several times I’ve accompanied my master as he insp
ected the fortifications. I think he liked to show me off to the common soldiers,” she added bitterly. “There’s a partially collapsed section of wall that can be squeezed through. From there, it’s a steep climb down to the river.”
“Would they have men at the opening?” questioned Anarynd.
“How would I know?” asked the woman. “I only saw it twice and only in daylight, with no alert ongoing. What they’re doing now, I can’t say.”
Anarynd could hardly believe what she contemplated. “Can you tell me exactly how to find it?”
“No. But I can show you. I think you’re right. This may be the best chance to escape.”
“You’re both crazy!” snapped Gwyned. “You know what will happen when you’re caught!”
“If we’re caught,” countered Anarynd. “If we get there and can’t find the opening and we’re asked, we’ll just say we were frightened and looking for a place to hide from the murderous clansmen we heard were coming to rape us.” She spit out the last words with venom.
Breathing hard, Gwyned wrung her hands. “I still say you’re both crazy . . . but . . . I’m going, too. Let me get Morwena.”
Two of the other woman voiced they would also come, while the sixth thought them all insane, but she would go back to her quarters and wish them God’s protection. The remaining five huddled together.
“Take nothing but the clothing anyone would normally wear around the city,” said Anarynd. She waved a hand over the florid and expensive robe Erdelin had insisted she wear. “The clothing we’re wearing now would identify us as officers’ slaves. Change into less conspicuous clothing. Nothing else—otherwise, it will raise suspicion if we’re stopped.”
Heavier Than a Mountain (Destiny's Crucible Book 3) Page 3
