by Tim Stead
There was no road that led from Bas Erinor to the White Road Pass. Cain could have taken his army across the border into Berash and then turned north within sight of Tor Silas to reach the great plain, but he chose the other route, keeping within Avilian’s borders for as long as he could, then trekking across the rolling plains to the pass. That was the plan. The Berashi route would have given him the chance to check the progress of their allies, and perhaps march north with them, but there was a greater possibility of delay, and it really did not matter if one of them arrived a week before the other, as long as one of them got there early. He and the Berashis should both have enough men and material to begin work and stay busy for a week without the other.
There was also the issue of taking an Avilian army into Berash, and while they were now allies, he was sensitive to the recent past. Many in Berash would be uncomfortable with Avilian troops on their roads. Memories of war tended to be long.
As they travelled Cain reflected that Avilian had a lot of people, millions, but they tended towards the coast. The great cities of Bas Erinor and Golt were magnets, drawing people south, so that more than half the population lived within a sniff of the sea. The rest were spread thinly, through small towns, villages, estates, steadily thinner and thinner, until the kingdom ended at the traditional border with the great plain: the Gods’ Walk.
He had never been this far north before, or at least not in Avilian. There was a tendency for bandits to stray north of the walk, but for them the risk of the Benetheon was less than the certainty of a hanging, and there was at least some stay on the forces of justice that might pursue them.
On this journey Cain did not worry about bandits. He had three thousand armed men, and bandits would strive to avoid such a force, so he rode with a degree of relaxed confidence through the small towns that clung to the road. He noticed, too, that the nature of their welcome changed as they moved north. In southern towns people came out to wish them well. There was even some cheering, a few flowers were thrown. Perhaps it was because the seventh friend was a southern regiment. These people might well know someone, a son or nephew, who marched with Cain or Skal. It would make them naturally sympathetic. Volunteer regiments were always a bit like that. There were a lot of young men in Bas Erinor who had come to the city from its hinterland to make their way in life, and they would have come from towns and villages like these.
Further north the welcome cooled. Cain understood that, too. Soldiers were never popular in small towns and villages, especially when there were a lot of them. The people were glad to see the back of them because they were capable of so little local good and so much local evil. He watched the sullen faces. One or two of the younger men and boys looked interested, their eyes feasting greedily on the weapons, the glittering armour, the bright colours. There were always one or two who thought soldiering might be an exciting life, felt the call of sword and bow, horse and lance. There might even be one here or there who would take to the life and do well, but mostly it was fancy.
Still further down the road he saw fear in people’s eyes. That did surprise him. These were soldiers of Avilian riding through loyal lands. It worried Cain, seeing that look, seeing men duck behind houses, women chasing their children inside and bolting doors shut behind them. One or two men remained on the street and watched them ride by with resentment in their eyes. It stank of abuse; the abuse of power.
They rode and walked on, the wagons and the men moving at a steady two miles every hour. The roads were good and the men fit enough. They made twenty miles each day, sometimes more. Cain worried about the snow melting. He worried about Seth Yarra. He worried about the Berashis getting to the pass before him.
He rode at the head, always at the head of the column. It allowed him to see the country free of dust and men. Sheyani generally rode beside him on her mount that was too large for her, and Major Gorios stayed with him, too. Junior officers rode up and down the column, making sure that it kept together, telling him if anything untoward happened.
They had lost a wagon on the third day, and he’d left fifty men to guard it while the load was shifted to an empty wagon, one of the few he’d brought along. They had abandoned the broken one. It would have taken a day to fix, a new wheel would have to be brought from a nearby town, and the axle might have been too damaged anyway. The new wagon and the fifty men rejoined them the same night.
On the whole it was going well.
They were still two days from the Gods’ Walk when it happened. Cain was riding beside Sheyani, and she was playing on her pipes as she so often did when conversation flagged. Her playing lifted Cain’s spirits, even if he was wearing his copper talisman. Just the music itself was very fine for marching men to hear, and somehow the sound carried back through the column, dodging past the tramping feet and hooves, around the rattle and rumble of wagons, over the voices of the men, so that all were touched by it, and were lifted up.
Cain was convinced that they made more miles on the days she played.
“Colonel.”
Cain heard the note of warning in Major Gorios’ voice, and looked up. There were horsemen up ahead. He counted. Twelve of them. No threat to the column, and they looked Avilian. The twelve were seated comfortably, waiting for the column to draw level. They were soldiers, armed and armoured, but not aggressive. He did not stop the column, but rode by, and noted that the men spurred their horses to keep pace, and two of them eased in close to where Cain rode.
“Colonel Arbak?”
“I am,” Cain said. “And you?”
“Captain Verlatten, sir. I bring fresh orders.” He was a young man, immaculately turned out, particularly considering that he had been on the road. He had an open face, and sat well on his horse.
“Orders? I have my orders from the Duke of Bas Erinor and Wolf Narak. Whose orders do you bring?”
“The Wolf’s, my lord,” the young captain said.
“Wolf Narak has given you new orders for me?”
The captain flushed slightly. “Not in person, my lord,” he said. “They come through my lord of Carillon, whose lands these are. It was known that you would be passing this way, and so rather than seek you on the road the orders were given to Carillon.”
Cain studied the young man. It seemed odd that Narak should use a man like Carillon, but there was no doubting the Wolf’s unpredictable nature. He could well have taken advantage of the geography to pass orders. Also the captain seemed a guileless young man.
“What orders do you bring, Captain?”
“The column is to continue as planned, but you yourself are required to ride to the town of Bergan Rise. The Wolf will meet you there and make his purpose plain. It is not more than a day.”
Major Gorios raised an eyebrow. Sheyani frowned. Cain pulled a map from his saddle bag and opened it on the pommel of his horse as they rode. He traced the road with his finger to the point where they were, and sure enough there was a town, Bergan Rise, marked no more than fifteen miles to the east. He would have to double back or go cross country to reach it.
“That is all?” Cain asked.
“That is all, my lord.”
“And will you escort me, Captain?”
“No, my lord. My orders are to return to my regiment as soon as the order is accepted.”
Cain nodded to himself. That made sense. He would take a small escort of his own. Two or three men would do, and he would be in no danger. These were settled parts. He would move quickly, see whatever it was that Narak wanted, and then rejoin his regiment as soon as he could. He did not want to abandon them at all, but he could not ignore Narak.
“Very well, Captain. You may consider your message delivered.”
The captain saluted and peeled away from the column, his men following, moving ahead of them at a canter, lost to view almost at once.
“You are going to go?” Sheyani asked.
“I must. When the Wolf calls…”
“I will come with you, Sheshay,” she said. Cain
shook his head.
“You’ll do more good with the column,” he said. “Play for them. Keep an eye on things for me. I trust your eye to see what I need to know.”
She agreed with a reluctant nod. “I will do as you ask, Sheshay.”
There was no point in delaying. Every second took them further away from the town, stretched the journey. He wheeled out of the column and rode back until he found Bargil. His man was looking after the supply wagons, riding up and down the column with the ease of an old cavalry soldier, which, of course, he was.
“Tane, I’ve got an errand to run. You’ll come with me, and pick two other men. We ride to Bergan Rise.” Bargil behaved like a good soldier. He didn’t question the order, and in a few seconds he had picked the escort, handed his duties over to his second and was beside Cain.
“Trouble, Colonel?” he asked.
“Narak,” Cain replied.
Bargil nodded. The one word was explanation enough. They rode south, moving slowly past the column, and Cain got his first chance since Bas Erinor to inspect them on the march. The officers saluted as they went by, a lot of the men did the same. He saw smiles on their faces as they passed. It took a while, but quite soon they were on their own, riding through the settling dust on a road that was suddenly quiet and empty. It felt quite odd.
“Well, let’s get this done,” Cain said. He picked up the pace, riding down the middle of the road. He would stick to the road rather than go cross country. There was less chance of getting lost, and they could move at a steady canter until the horses tired. They drummed along the highway, nobody speaking, all intent of the journey. It was a few miles back to the turn, and they got there in good time. There was a milestone at the turn. It said eleven miles to Bergan Rise. Actually it said B Rise 11m, but the shorthand was plain enough. There was a distance to Bas Erinor on the north side, as well as one to the last town they had passed. Was that really fifteen miles back?
By now it was noon, and Cain was hungry. As keen as he was to be done with this side trip he knew that whatever Narak had planned it would not involve eating.
“We’ll break for midday,” he said.
Bargil’s men dismounted. One of them took Cain’s horse and hobbled it with the others, the other unpacked rations while Tane Bargil himself stood at the junction and looked down he road to Bergan Rise with a frown on his face. The road was narrower than the one they were on, and within a few hundred yards it plunged into a forest. From here it looked like a cave, so dense were the bare branches above it.
“Problems, Tane?” Cain asked.
“Not a road I would have chosen, Colonel.”
“We’re seventy miles from the Gods’ Walk,” Cain reassured him. “There’ll be no bandits this far south.”
“We should have brought more men,” the big man said. He limped over to where the food had been laid out and lowered himself to the grass, taking out his sword and laying it beside him within easy reach. It was a Dragon Guard thing, Cain supposed. Tane had been a sergeant in the elite Berashi cavalry until the injury that had damaged his leg, and this was one of their habits – sword always to hand, ready for the enemy, even if there was none. He noted that Bargil’s men did the same, though they were Avilian born and bred.
They ate quickly. They were far enough north now for snow to be everywhere the sun was not. Every shaded spot was white, and in the long grass it lay in ribbons and patches where the sun could not touch. The tunnel of the Bergan Rise road was white floored with the snow that had come down through the naked trees.
Cain allowed the winter sun to warm him. He sat still with his back to the light, feeling the heat slowly work its way through his jacket and into his body. He chewed at the dried meat and fruit. He drank water that was shockingly cold from a leather flask.
All too soon they were finished, and almost as soon as he was stood up and had stretched his limbs Bargil’s man was presenting him his horse and the others were mounting. They were all good men, he thought. Tane Bargil had trained them well.
They rode into the gloom, but it was not as dark on the road as it had first seemed. The trees made an open weave above them, enough to filter most of the low sun’s rays, but the light from the pearly blue sky was plenty to see by. They walked the horses now. Their run before midday had been enough to warm them, but midday had undone that, and a brisk walk would serve to heat their muscles again.
It was less than a mile before they saw the men. There were four of them, and they stepped out of the forest onto the road not more than a hundred paces ahead of the horses. Bargil reined his mount to a stop.
“Are they what I think they are?” he asked.
“Seth Yarra,” Cain replied. “Cleansers.” The four men were unmistakable. They wore black, decorated with steel, and all four swords were drawn. He glanced to the side, drawing his own blade as he turned his mount.
“We’ll ride them down,” Bargil said, and true to his word he dug his heels into his horse’s flank, and his men did the same.
Cain heard the arrows. He didn’t see them, but his horse was hit. He saw the shaft appear in its neck as though by magic. Something struck the saddle next to his leg. He heard the animal scream, and felt it begin to fall, twisting back on itself with the pain. He jumped as best he could, and it was good enough. He landed clear of the falling, thrashing horse, felt the blade knocked from his hand and the wind punched out of his gut by the hard ground.
He rolled and recovered the sword, but he didn’t stand. If there were men about with bows it would be a mistake. He looked across and saw that the other horses were down. One of Bargil’s men looked dead. He scrambled to the horse, which was now only shuddering as it died, and pulled his shield from the pommel.
It was an ambush, plain as day, and he’d walked into it. He was supposed to be the clever one, the strategist, but he hadn’t seen this. He would have sworn that the captain hadn’t meant him harm. That was clever, he supposed. Send an innocent man with the bait.
An arrow bit at the horse’s saddle by his head.
“Well, you were right about there being no bandits,” Bargil said. He was hunkered down behind his own mount’s corpse, sword in hand. “What do you want to do?” he asked, “Rush them or wait for them?”
“If we rush them we won’t get ten paces,” Cain said.
“Not with my leg,” the sergeant grinned. “Best wait for them, then.”
They waited. Cain risked a glance over the top, and he could see the four men, the original four, still standing in the road. They hadn’t moved as far as he could tell, but they seemed to be discussing the situation. He looked again, behind them this time, and saw four more men walking up from behind, but they were still fifty paces away.
“I’d give anything for a bow,” he said.
“Make them an offer,” Bargil said. Cain shook his head. It was peculiar how old hands like Bargil could crack jokes at a time like this. As far as he could see they were dead. By the arrows there were at least four bowmen each side of the road, and eight more with swords. Even without the bows they were in trouble. Eight swords against three was poor odds, and he knew the cleansers were good at their trade.
What a way to go. All those years of careful soldiering, and now to be killed because he was important. It was ironic. Nobody would ever ambush a sergeant. He looked up at the trees. Somewhere there was a bird calling, and he listened to it. He recognised it: a sand finch. He remembered them from Bas Erinor. They flew in modest flocks in the fields around the river, stealing grain.
Cain remembered something that Narak had told him once, about Seth Yarra, how some of them spoke Afalel. He had some of the language himself. He’d served Afaeli masters a few times as a mercenary.
“Soldiers of Seth Yarra!” He shouted so that his voice would carry to all of them.
“I wasn’t serious,” Bargil said.
“We need to buy time,” Cain said.
“Time? I thought you needed a bow. What good will time do?”
“Trust me. We need time.”
“You’ve got a plan?”
“Maybe.”
“Tell me.”
“No time.”
“Who speaks?” The voice came from the original four swordsmen, and it was heavily accented Afalel. Cain’s first prayer had been answered. If he got through this he would be tying ribbons on the divine stair come next year’s Eltaraya.
“I am General Cain Arbak, Lord of Waterhill, Knight Talon of the Order of the Dragon, Victor of Fal Verdan,” he shouted back.
“Is that wise?” Bargil asked, keeping his voice to a whisper.
“They already know who I am,” he whispered back.
“What do you wish to say before you die, General?” the voice called back.
“I was wondering if it was true what they say about you Seth Yarra cleansers,” he called. “That you are all cowards.”
