“Captain Jaques!” Kyre shouted, out of breath. “You made excellent time from Burwyck.”
Jaques was not surprised to see his future duke, he had received a message from Duke Falco, stating that the Falco heir was to take command of the battalion. He was surprised to see Kyre so soon. Jaques bowed. “Yes, Your Grace. I was ordered to bring the battalion to Anschulz with all possible speed.”
“Excellent. Then,” Kyre couldn’t think of anything useful to do, that Jaques had not already done. “We ride.”
“Hurry up, you laggards,” shouted a sergeant from the rear of the column, as Kyre was riding past with Captain Jaques.
Kyre pulled his horse to a slow walk. “What is the problem, Sergeant?”
The sergeant snatched off his cap and bowed. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but these two aren’t keeping up with the column’s march,” he slapped a rope across the backs of two soldiers in front of him.
“Hold!” Kyre ordered, and the men stopped walking. He had noticed they were both limping badly. “You can’t walk?”
“Sire,” one of the soldiers answered, not daring to look at Kyre. “That is, Your Grace, I twisted my ankle on the barge, tripped over ropes in the dark. Luren here,” he pointed to the man beside him, “hurt his knee when a clumsy sailor dropped a sack of grain on it.”
“It’s true, Your Grace,” Luren added, staring at the road. “I’d be all right in a few days,” he winced from the pain, “this marching is making it worse.”
“Sergeant,” Kyre asked, “have these two men been a problem before?” He noticed the two men were marching without packs, to lighten their load.
“No, Your Grace,” the sergeant answered honestly.
“Captain Jaques, making men march when they are injured only leads to men who can’t fight. Let these two ride in a wagon, until they can walk properly.”
“Sire,” Jaques cautioned his young leader in a low voice, “we don’t have room, the wagons are full.” The march was only scheduled to be for six days, over a range of hills. Once they reached the Tormel river, they would board barges for the ride down to near the western border of Tarador. Making use of river transport was the only practical way to move large armies within the borders of Tarador; there were not enough horses in the land for every solider, and supplying horses would be too expensive. So, other than small groups of cavalry, most soldiers in Tarador marched, unless they were lucky to ride a barge or a wagon. “I only hired enough wagons to carry our gear.” That was on the strict instructions of Duke Falco, who watched every expenditure by his army carefully.
“What is in that second wagon?” Kyre asked. “In the back?” He had not been able to see the wagons being loaded in Teregen.
“That is your campaign tent, Sire,” Jaques explained. He referred to a large, luxurious white tent that Kyre would use as his headquarters while the army was stationed in the field.
“Dump it,” Kyre ordered. “I don’t need luxury, I need soldiers who can fight.”
“But, Sire!” Jaques protested, shocked. “That tent belongs to the army of Burwyck,” he added. Jaques had planned to use the tent as his headquarters also. It was, if nothing else, a symbol of his authority. For a Burwyck army captain to use a regular tent, or to set up a table under the shade of a tree, would be scandalous.
Kyre smiled with one side of his mouth. “If my father desires that tent so badly, he can come and get it. I will send him a note detailing where we left it.”
“Your Grace,” Jaques’ face was turning white. Duke Falco would certainly blame Jaques for losing an expensive tent.
“Captain Jaques,” Kyre raised his voice above the whisper they had been using. “I am the heir to Burwyck, and my father sent me here to take command. As long as I am here, you will obey my orders without question. Is that clear?”
Jaques winced at the sting of Kyre’s remark. “Yes, Your Grace,” he answered stiffly.
Kyre had not meant to hurt the man, who he knew to be a good soldier and a disciplined but fair leader of men. “Jaques, that does not mean that I do not value your experience and advice. I do things differently from my father, and we will both have to adjust to each other. For my part, I will follow proper Burwyck army protocol when I can. And,” he smiled, “I expect you will do your best from keeping me from making the worst possible mistakes.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Jaques responded, slightly mollified. Leading his army contingent alongside the Royal Army, in a foreign province, in a desperate battle to save Tarador from invasion by their ancient enemy, would be difficult on its own. Here, Captain Jaques also had to tolerate, adapt to, and educate a young heir to the duchy of Burwyck.
Perhaps, Jaques thought to himself, he would be lucky enough to fall victim to an orc arrow soon after arriving at the border. To die in combat would be a far better fate for a soldier, than to get drawn into the mess of politics.
An hour later, Kyre dropped back from the head of the column, holding his horse off to the side as the soldiers marched by, followed by the wagons. Captain Jaques followed Kyre, keeping silent. Kyre wanted to see the soldiers he would be fighting with, and he wanted them to see him. He wanted the army to see him on a horse, strong and confident, when in truth Kyre was anything but confident. He feared that at any moment, a message would arrive from his father, recalling him to Linden, or worse. Until then, he was determined to make the best of the situation.
When the second wagon rolled past, he saw the two men who had been limping, were now sitting at the back of the wagon. Their feet hung over the back, and the two were looking completely miserable. They knew their fellow soldiers resented marching, while those two rode in a wagon. “Luren, is it?” Kyre asked.
“He is Luren, Your Grace,” the man said quickly, taking off his cap and bending low in a seated bow. “I’m Tom Potosi.”
“Well, Potosi,” Kyre said with an exaggerated frown, “are your hands injured also?”
“No, Sire,” Potosi expression showed surprise. He and Luren held up their hands. “Our hands work fine, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. Sergeant Garner!” Kyre shouted, and a sergeant came running over to walk beside the wagon.
“Yes, Your Grace?” The sergeant asked.
“I am sure that we have gear, or clothing that needs mending, or potatoes that need to be peeled for dinner. Idle hands,” Kyre pointed to Luren and Potosi, “make for unhappy soldiers. And when we stop for the night, these two are on cooking duty. And whatever duty you can find for them, that does not require marching.”
“Yes, Sire,” the sergeant beamed happily, and Potosi and Luren smiled also. There was indeed gear that needed mending, work soldiers had to do at the end of a long day of marching; work that took away from what little leisure time the soldiers had.
“Giving those men work to do, Sire?” Jaques asked. “That is a good idea. Their fellows will not reset them as laggards quite so much.”
“I might be capable of learning, Jaques?” Kyre asked with a grin.
“You might, Your Grace, you just might.”
The battalion halted for the night at a farm just outside a village. With hundreds of soldiers, a half dozen wagons and dozens of horses, there was no place in the village to set up their encampment, and the local stable could not accommodate so many horses. The farmer was delighted to take Captain Jaques’ coins in exchange for use of the farm and all the grain the battalion’s horses needed. The farmer and his wife also did a brisk business selling canned fruit, jars of jam and honey to the soldiers.
As tents were being set up for the night’s encampment, Kyre strode over to the wagon that served as the battalion’s field kitchen. The cooks had gotten fires started in the ovens as soon as their wagon stopped, and something was beginning to bubble in the large kettles. “Your Grace?” One of the cooks asked anxiously. “You wish to inspect the kitchen?” The cook helpfully held out a pair of white cotton gloves for Kyre to use in checking the cleanliness of the kitchen utensils.
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br /> To the surprise of the cooks, Kyre shook his head. “No, I trust Captain Jaques inspects your equipment regularly.” The field kitchen wagon, and the hospital wagon, were the only wagons that had made the long trip all the way from Burwyck; all the other wagons had been hired when the battalion got off the river barges. Kyre picked up a battered metal bowl. “I wish to taste what is for dinner.”
The cooks froze as if they’d been shot with arrows. Officers never ate the food that was served to common soldiers. And royalty certainly never expressed any interest in knowing what the common soldiers were eating. With trembling hands, the chief cook lifted the lid of a kettle and ladled out a small portion into Kyre’s bowl. Kyre sniffed at it suspiciously, then tasted it. “This is supposed to be beef stew?” The Falco heir asked.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the cook bowed low, wringing his hands. “We have casks of salt beef-”
“And not enough of it,” Kyre observed as he lifted the kettle’s lid and stirred the stew with a ladle. “This is a vegetable stew, with salt beef for flavoring. I am not pleased. How do you expect soldiers to march all day, on stomachs filled with this?” He did not truly expect an answer from the cooks, who stared at the ground in shame. Kyre reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin purse. “Lieutenant Baines!” He called out, and the man ran over.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“I will be dining with the troops tonight, as will all the officers,” as Kyre spoke, he could see the shock and disappointment on the lieutenant’s face. No doubt, the officers were arranging to buy chickens from the farmer, and have the cooks roast them for dinner. “Take these coins,” he handed the silver pieces to Baines, “and bargain with our good farmer for a couple of his old cows,” Kyre pointed to the pasture, where several fat cows were contentedly munching on hay. He winked at Baines. “We will put some beef into this beef stew.”
Luren and Potosi, after a long evening of helping the cooks to prepare, cook, serve and then clean up, finally were able to sit down and enjoy their own dinner. Sergeant Garner joined them. “Well, you two layabouts, did you enjoy your time in the wagon? Riding along like royalty, waving to the common folk as you went by, taking the air while your coach took you on a turn about the countryside?”
“Ah, Sergeant,” Luren said as wriggled on the ground to make his sore back as comfortable as he could. “That damned wagon bumps and lurches over every rut in the road, I swear the driver was aiming for every pothole.”
“Aye,” Potosi agreed. “The driver has springs under the seat for her comfort,” he made a rude gesture toward where their wagon’s driver was sitting. “In the back, we got the worst of it. My back and my backside are killing me.”
“Tomorrow, I’d rather walk,” Luren grumbled.
“Can you?” Sergeant Garner asked.
“I don’t think so, not yet,” Luren said as he flexed his sore knee. Changing the subject, he dug a spoon into his bowl of beef stew, and pulled out a piece of actual beef. “This is the best meal I’ve had from that kitchen.”
“Thanks to His Grace,” Potosi observed, not sure what to make of the ducal heir. Kyre was sitting on the ground against a fence, eating beef stew with the officers. “Holding court over there, looks like.”
“He’s a clever one,” Garber announced. “he let you two ride-”
“Aye, and then gave us enough work for four men!” Luren protested.
Garner ignored the interruption. “And he will be sleeping in a regular tent with us tonight, rather than taking the best room in the village’s inn. He buys us fresh beef, now he’s talking with the officers. He’s sounding them out, seeing who of them will be loyal to him, if it comes to that. And us,” Garner ladled a spoonful of beef stew into his mouth, “he thinks to buy our loyalty with beef.”
“Better that, than to try beating loyalty into us with the end of a rope,” Luren said quietly, “Sergeant.”
Garner took no offense. He knew Luren was a good soldier. “We will see how well this purchased loyalty works for His Grace, when it comes to fighting orcs.”
“Maybe His Grace is different,” Potosi mused, and pointed toward Kyre with his spoon. “he is eating our food. And making the officers eat it, too. If that keeps up, I have hopes my stomach will survive.”
“We will see how long that lasts,” Luren grimaced. “Sure, His Grace is eating with us now, when we have fresh beef. Wait until all we have is dried fish, or salted pork and mashed peas, and biscuits so hard you could kill an orc with one.”
“I hear tell he gave up his tent for a sick soldier, earlier this year,” Potosi said hopefully. “And he helped his guards set up and take down tents. Kyre may like to get his hands dirty, on occasion.”
“All I can say is,” Garner ate more of the delicious stew before it grew cold, “dirty hands will not be his biggest problem, when his father finds out the heir has been coddling the Duke’s soldiers. Duke Falco doesn’t hold with fraternizing between royalty and common folk.”
Four days later, even Sergeant Garner had to admit that Kyre Falco was indeed different from his father the duke. The officers and Kyre ate only what the common soldiers ate. Even when the cooks were nearly in tears due to the poor selection of food supplies left, Kyre ate what the cooks were able to serve, and complained no more than anyone else. When they passed by farms, Kyre had his lieutenants bargain for chickens, and each evening a different group of soldiers were given chickens to roast on their own. When Kyre told his officers that their turn for a special dinner would come only after all the soldiers had enjoyed a special meal, his lieutenants found the energy to range far and wide in search of chickens and anything else they could find. One especially eager party of three lieutenants and a sergeant returned one afternoon with two deer, four chickens and two fat geese, to the cheers of the entire battalion.
Even the officers ate well that night.
Koren, Bjorn and the four dwarves took their newly painted wagons north. They could have gone any direction; Koren wanted to go north because that ‘felt right’. Bjorn thought going west was a better bet, but he agreed to follow his friend’s lead on their first trip. He also did not tell the dwarves the reason he had decided to go north.
Bjorn and Koren rode ahead on horseback, with the dwarves driving the two wagons. Barlen was on the seat of the first wagon, feeling ridiculous and exposed. The wagons were bait and Barlen knew he was a target; any bandit wishing to capture the wagons would shoot the drivers first. Two days had gone by, with the wagons stopping very few hours so Koren and Bjorn could ride ahead and look for signs of trouble. So far, all they had seen was wilderness, and to Koren’s excitement, the snow-capped peaks of the mountains in the dwarf homeland. The mountains were only a faint line on the northern horizon; they still grabbed Koren’s imagination. “Have your ever been there, Bjorn?”
“Aye, once. The King Adric visited, early in his reign. He wished to show his respect to the dwarves, and forge an alliance with their leaders. That alliance stands today,” Bjorn added with considerable pride.
“Why are the mountains covered with snow, this late in the year?” Koren could not understand that. It was late summer in Tarador; apples were ripening in the orchards. Mornings were already cool in the north of the land, soon there would be frost tinging the trees before sunrise.
“You are only seeing the very peaks of those mountains, Kedrun. Their lower slopes are free of snow now. And, unless you have been there, you can’t imagine how tall those mountains are. The dwarves say those mountaintops hold up the sky, and I believe them.”
“Will we be-”
Bjorn snapped his fingers twice softly, the signal for danger. “Kedrun, you see that tree up ahead on the right? Just past that great old oak.”
Koren knew to keep his eyes staring straight ahead. “Which one?”
“I think it’s an ash. It’s dead, see, most of the leaves have fallen off it? But there are some leaves still clinging to it. That tree is recently dead; someone cut it. Up yonde
r on the right is another tree like it.”
“Bandits?”
“Got to be. They’ll drop that second tree ahead of us, then this one behind, and our wagons will be well and truly trapped on the road.” As he spoke, Bjorn tugged at the red bandana around his neck, as if were itching him. He tugged at the bandana until the tail of it spun around to hang over the back of his collar. The wagon drivers were watching; that was the signal to them. Barlen on the seat of the lead wagon pulled three times on a rope that went into the back of the wagon, alerting the Farlane army archers there. One of the archers dropped a blue rag from the bottom of the lead wagon, giving the signal to the wagon behind. As Koren and Bjorn passed the first dead tree, everyone in the party was alert. The archers each had an arrow nocked and ready; others in the back of the wagons pulled the pins to lower the sides, holding the sides up by hand. Up on the seats of the two wagons, the dwarves used their boots to nudge their battleaxes and bows out from under the seats, where they were readily available.
Koren took deep, even breaths to keep himself calm, although he was anything but calm. Anything could go wrong. He was not afraid for his own life. His fear was that he might miss his only chance to answer the question of why his mother’s pendant had come to be in the hands of a notorious bandit. He feared that another gang of bandits may attack the wagons; that Lekerk may be far away. Or that these bandits were Lekerk’s own, but the man himself was not with them, or staying far enough behind that he could escape easily. Or, worse, that the archers would kill Lekerk. Koren and Bjorn had stressed to the archers the importance of keeping Lekerk alive, and the archers had nodded and agreed. But Koren had seen in the eyes of the archers that they knew the reward for Lekerk would be paid the same whether the bandit was alive or dead, and dead was much more simple to manage. And archer could kill Lekerk from afar, with little risk to the archer himself. Approaching Lekerk involved taking on risk, with no reward.
Transcendent (Ascendant Book 2) Page 30
