by Tim Stead
“You must eat,” she said. “I will not. In a moment I will try to leave here and cross the bailey without attracting their notice. If they see me and know who I am they will try to seize me. If that happens I will call for you and you must break out and attack them. If I succeed, then you must stay here; bolt the door, and hold them out for as long as you can.” That would be a day, perhaps two. She would be long gone with Terresh’s body by the time Seth Yarra knew that he was missing.
“We will buy you the time or distraction that you need, lord King,” the man said. “Do not doubt it.” She could see the other men nodding, their faces lit with a sort of grim satisfaction. Either path would be death, but these brave men did not hesitate. They saw the glory. They saw the purpose. She was moved by their devotion, even though she was an impostor, a usurper within this body. Terresh would have been proud – or maybe he would have taken it for granted that men would die like this to aid him.
“You will all kneel,” she said. Pascha had seen enough ceremony in the royal court of Telas to know the king’s custom. The men knelt as one. She lifted her borrowed sword and held it above their heads. “I, King Terresh of Telas, lord of the west, lion of the eternal kingdom, emperor of the seas, do on this day admit you as Knights Apparent of the Royal Order of Telas, the honour is bestowed for a great and worthy service to the person of the king, according to custom and tradition. Let no man doubt your worth, for I do not.”
They all bowed their heads, almost as though in prayer.
“Rise, Knights of the Royal Order,” she said. They rose. She was ashamed, at least a little. These men were going to die for Terresh, for her, for the war, and she had not been honest with them. If any of them survived, the king would not remember. But he would keep Pascha’s word, she vowed, or Hestia would.
She watched the men eat what little food there was. She wanted to give her sword to one of the Telans, but it would be a mistake. A Seth Yarra soldier without a sword would be an obvious thing, bound to draw attention, and she needed to be invisible, or as close as she could get.
It was time to act. She walked up the short passageway between the two dungeon doors and stood before the last. Beyond this there were Seth Yarra. She was surprised that she could feel them, almost like being in the Sirash. The warmth of their minds was palpable through the door.
She rubbed dirt on the king’s face. It was fortunate that he was neither tall not short, that his complexion was not dissimilar from the olive skinned Seth Yarra.
Turn away, she thought. Do not see.
Pascha opened the door.
31. Rescue
Cain looked into the eyes of the man who was about to kill him, and he did not hate him. He had done his best to delay things, but perhaps it was not enough. He was wounded, could feel the strength draining from him with the blood that trickled down his arm. He thought of Sheyani, and of Waterhill, his pretty estate in the south, but mostly he thought of Sheyani. This stranger, a Seth Yarra cleanser, an officer, would also have a life, perhaps children, a house, people who loved him. He believed, as Cain did, that his cause was just.
He had been certain about the sand finch. He knew the birds. They frequented the open fields and grassy meadows around Bas Erinor, swarmed in flocks, called in chorus. This had been one bird, in a wood hundreds of miles from where it was supposed to be. It had to be a man; one of his men.
He watched the Seth Yarra officer raise his sword. Cain lifted his own blade, raised his shield to take the blow as well as he could, but his knees wanted to buckle, his arms were slow. And there was another bird, a hawk, crying in the wood. Hawks he knew as well. They were birds of the open air, and flew their sharp-eyed patterns somewhere between the forest and the sky. This one was sitting somewhere in the woods to his right.
He heard bees. But they were not bees. An arrow, two, three, sprouted from the body of the Seth Yarra who had been about to kill him, and the man fell, his sword dropping from his hand, which went to pluck uselessly at a shaft buried in his neck.
Cain allowed himself to fall. The best place to be now was on the ground, below the deadly traffic that filled the air. He heard shouts, running feet, more arrows, the angry noise of steel on steel. He found himself looking into the eyes of the Seth Yarra officer. The man wasn’t quite dead. His eyes were blinking slowly and blood was running sluggishly from the corner of his mouth. He was looking back at Cain.
“I’m sorry,” Cain said. It was true. He hadn’t wanted this man to die. He’d been a decent enough soldier, a good blade, a man of honour as far as Cain could tell. It was a waste. The dying man blinked one more time, and then his eyes grew still and lost their focus, looking at something only the dead can see. Cain turned away. As much as he thought it a waste, a death like this didn’t upset him. He accepted it as part of war, and it was better that he should die than Cain. Cain wasn’t a hypocrite about life and death.
“General? General, are you all right?”
He looked up and saw a face he knew. It was Skal’s man, Tilian Henn. He looked so young, and so worried that he was almost on the edge of panic.
“No,” said Cain. “That bastard cut me a couple of time, but it’s nothing a good physic can’t put right.” He sat up and looked around. His head was swimming, and he knew better than to try to stand. Other men were crowding round now. He saw Bargil’s face, all frowns and concentration, and felt his armour lifted away, the cold air on his skin as his shirt followed it.
“Not that bad,” he heard Bargil say. “One’s a scratch. The other needs a bit of care, but you heal fast, General.” He called for bandages, and Cain gritted his teeth as the big man dressed the wound, tied the bandage tight around his arm.
Horses appeared, and he was levered up onto one. All this time he had been passive, allowing his men to do their work, but now it was time to be decisive.
“We need to rejoin the regiment,” he said.
“You need to rest,” Bargil said, but by his tone Cain knew that it was only words spoken because they had to be.
“I’ll rest on the back of a wagon when we get there,” he said. In truth he felt better now. His head had cleared a little, and the water that one of Henn’s men had given him had helped to restore him. “For now I can ride. We won’t push the pace, but we should rejoin them tomorrow.” He saw that Henn was talking to his men. The man had been a lieutenant when he’d seen him in Bas Erinor, but now he wore a captain’s marks. He caught his eye and waved him over.
“Captain Henn, I owe you my life. I won’t forget. That was good work, though your timing could have been better.”
They moved out. Cain spared a last glance back at the bodies they left behind. Sixteen Seth Yarra. It had been an ambush. He was certain of it now. They had been laying for him. They had known he was coming. If that was the case, then the message the young lieutenant had delivered had not been from the Wolf. He had named Carillon as his master, and so it was Carillon he would seek out.
Yet there was something wrong. Skal had told him about the Duke of Carillon. The man was not bright, but a patriot in Avilian terms; a bigot at any rate and a traditionalist. Such a man would be unlikely to plot with Seth Yarra, who were even more demonised than Berashis in the traditionalist canon. It would be out of character. Yet the name had been spoken, and it was certain that the lieutenant had been no Seth Yarra. It was where he would begin his search for truth.
Time and duty were against him, though. He was very aware that the reason Seth Yarra had wanted him dead was that he had acquired a certain significance. He had led the defence of Fal Verdan. He was favoured by the Wolf. His death would have been seen as important, though he did not think it would have changed the outcome of any particular battle.
They rode for three hours while Cain mulled over the facts. He needed to get to the White Road as quickly as he could. That was his duty. The wall must be built, the ground prepared for the fight to come. Yet he was not actually necessary. He could pursue this matter for a day or two
and still fulfil his duty. But to what effect? He could not take the regiment with him, and he knew from Skal that Carillon had two thousand men under his command, and even with the Seventh Friend at his back Cain would not want to start a civil war on the eve of a Seth Yarra attack.
The pain of his injury grew as they rode, and at the end of three hours he was becoming concerned that it might be worse than Bargil had thought. He needed to stop, to lie still for a night and give himself a chance to heal.
It was an early stop, but neither Bargil nor Captain Henn complained. They went out of their way to make him comfortable. A large fire was built that filled the winter woods with wild shadows, but the good cheer of the men banished any ghosts. They seemed in high spirits, singing and drinking wine in the warmth and light. He wondered at it until Henn told him that they had been cold camping it all the way from Bas Erinor, training and riding fourteen hours and more every day. Add to that the victory they had won, and without the loss of a single man, and Cain understood well enough.
He noted that Henn posted ten men out in the woods, hidden in the dark in case anything approached, and ten more stayed sober by the fire to take their turn as the night wore on. He was a cautious man.
Cain ate a large meal, but only one cup of wine seemed to make him light headed again, and so he drank water, and several cups of the spiced tea that Bargil prepared so well. He was happy enough. It seemed that he had more than his share of luck, but that was good. Tomorrow he would be stronger. They would ride the king’s road and catch up with the regiment. Tomorrow he would be with Sheyani.
* * * *
The sun saw them up and eating a hearty breakfast. Cain was stiff and sore, but the strength had returned to his limbs and he felt alert. He talked with Henn and Bargil as they ate, avoiding the topic of war. Today he did not want to think about the bloodshed that lay ahead. Instead he talked about food, horses, taverns, the weather; anything that was not war or death.
The others caught his mood and went along with it. There was no hurry in their day, so they took their time breaking camp and setting out on the road. The regiment was moving up the road at a steady two miles an hour, assuming that nothing had happened to slow it, and they moved easily at twice that speed or more. Cain set a pace that was comfortable, that did not trouble his wound.
They broke their journey briefly at midday, but Cain was beginning to feel a sense of urgency. The night’s rest and their gentle pace had allowed him to heal quickly, and he was growing keen to be about his life again, to see Sheyani, to take stock of their situation and make a decision what to do about Carillon.
It was late in the afternoon when they made contact with the regiment. The sun was low in the sky and the road was mostly chilling in the shade of the thin forest that surrounded them when one of Captain Henn’s men came back with news that the rearguard of the Seventh Friend had been sighted.
Cain spurred his mount forwards at once. Sheyani would be with the van, where he would have been had he not been sent into ambush. He trotted past the men, and he saw that they were pleased to see him. Some saluted, some waved, and others called out. He waved back, but his mind was already ahead of him. It took twenty minutes to pass the entire regiment. He reined his horse to a walk as he came alongside Major Gorios. He turned in his saddle, but he could not see Sheyani, or her mount.
“Glad to have you back, General,” Gorios said. He was smiling, clearly relieved to be relieved of command.
“Where’s Sheyani?” Cain asked.
“She’s not with the regiment, General,” Gorios replied.
“No? Then where?”
“About an hour after you left yesterday a group of riders met us. One of them was the Duke of Carillon. They invited her to take advantage of the Duke’s hospitality for a day or two. He has a house near here.”
“She went with them?”
“They were quite insistent, General. Carillon himself said he would be desolated if she refused. Apparently he has a number of house guests and thought she would enjoy some high born company.”
Cain said nothing. He looked up at the darkening sky. The sun would be gone in an hour, and he was in no fit state to go riding off in the dark.
“How far is this house of Carillon’s, Major?”
“Half a day east. It’s a place called High Stone, set on the river.”
Half a day. He would have to leave in the morning, at dawn. He would take his cavalry with him – a thousand horse. That should be enough unless Carillon had his regiment camped at High Stone.
“Is something wrong, General?” Gorios asked.
“You might say that, Major. Carillon’s message sent me into a Seth Yarra ambush. It was only Captain Henn’s men coming up from the rear that saved out lives, and now you tell me that Carillon has Sheyani.”
“Carillon and Seth Yarra? The Duke’s not bright, but he’s no traitor, General.”
“I thought the same, but I only know what I’ve seen and heard, so I’ll be going after them in the morning.”
“I’d like to come with you, sir,” Gorios said.
Cain shook his head. “You have to take the rest of the men on,” he said. “Be careful, Major. There are Seth Yarra about; probably not many, but be careful.”
“I shall be, General. You will leave in the morning?”
“At dawn. I will take the cavalry. All of them.”
Gorios looked startled. He opened his mouth to speak, but evidently thought better of it and closed it again. It was Bargil who spoke.
“All of them, General? That is a thousand men.”
Cain turned in his saddle and looked at his sergeant, his friend. He knew that Bargil understood about Sheyani. He knew the big man was as much her friend as Cain was her lover. Their eyes met. It was about duty, Cain knew. Tane Bargil had been Dragon Guard, and their regimental was duty, honour, loyalty. The order of the words was no accident. Duty first. He nodded.
“I will take five hundred,” he said. “We will camp here.” He turned to Gorios. “Call for volunteers, Major. We will leave at dawn.”
32. High Stone
It had seemed quite innocent at first. The Duke and his retinue had been polite, but insistent, politely insistent, she supposed. She knew that Cain did not admire the man, but she was more used to his kind. Carillon was a high lord whose advantages all derived from his birth. He had very little in the way of natural talent, his ambition was to remain what he was, and his bold assumption of superiority, so evident in his loud voice and arrogant bearing, fooled no one.
In Durandar there were men and women, sons of great mages, children of houses that had bred generations of great talents, who in their own right possessed no aptitude for any path. Such people were tolerated for their bloodline which, it was usually assumed, had only skipped one generation.
It was the lack of ambition that made such people harmless. They revelled in displays of wealth and hospitality, performed a decorative function, as often as not, around the circles of those who wielded real power. Sheyani understood that she and Cain, particularly Cain, were of the moment, part of the tide of politics that washed about the great houses of the realm. She thought that this was the reason for Carillon’s invitation.
She had misunderstood.
Carillon was a puppet, some other lord’s creature, and there was real danger. They had ridden away from the column in good order, and in good heart, but it quickly became apparent that Carillon had no desire to speak with her, or even to ride at her side. An officer was delegated to this task, and he rode and talked well enough, but there was a discernable atmosphere about the party. It was as if they did not really want her there at all. That, too, she was able to explain away. She was not what they had really wanted. Cain would have been better. His stories about the fight at Fal Verdan would have been better, more martial, more entertaining.
So Sheyani had tolerated her sense of social unease, talked with the polite officer, and ridden to High Stone.
She had been
surprised to see soldiers as they approached the house, and indeed that the house was more of a fortress than she had expected. It sat proud and dark on the high point of a stony ridge that ran roughly north-south. Soldiers were camped on the open ground below its stalwart walls, tents lined up along the river that flowed southwards below the line of the ridge. She could not count them, but guessed about a thousand. It was odd to see so many soldiers not yet deployed in the cause of the war.
“You have had trouble here?” she asked the officer.
“Some,” he replied. “Bandits and such.”
A thousand troops and a castle to defend from bandits? There were not that many bandits in the whole of Avilian and Berash combined. The officer’s ‘and such’ hinted at something else, but surely the duke of Bas Erinor and even Cain would have known if such a threat existed so close to their line of march. She thought about questioning the man further, but he had looked away as soon as he had spoken his evasive reply, and it was clear that he did not want to enlarge on the subject, so she did not press him.
