by Remi Michaud
“My lord, you cannot.”
“It will be dangerous.”
“There is no need.”
Threimes cut his hand through the air, silencing them. “I am going. Chancellor Gustav will be in charge while I am away.” He glanced at the man, wide-set, middle-aged, his beard making him look strangely like an inverse tiger, orange-red striped with white, and Gustav nodded mutely.
“But Your Majesty,” Grayson said. “This is not the time. There are continuing reports of activity in the south. You know what is happening there. They may have suffered a defeat but they are still a threat. And now with this unprovoked attack on Killhern...we need our king here.”
“There is no heir to the throne,” Terban, the Duke of Threimes said. “Your wife, the good queen needs to return home. We need to secure the line of succession. Your Majesty, please...”
His voice trailed off and he backed away from Threimes's dirk-sharp glare.
“You will not speak of the queen,” the king said quietly. “She will return.” I hope. “As for the succession, there is still ample time to worry about it.”
He quelled the thoughts that rose of his wife, his queen, his Tilda. Gods but he missed her. He would give away his kingdom in return for her forgiveness. At one time, she had loved him. Perhaps she still did. But there was too much anger yet, too much grief. She still blamed him for their daughter's death, still blamed him for not protecting her. So many years ago yet not long at all. Sometimes if he allowed himself to think of it, he could still feel the sting where she had slapped him, he could feel it and it was like an accusation.
She must have known he could not have done anything. She was an intelligent woman, probably more intelligent than he was, he thought wryly. She must know.
“But if you do not return...” Grayson hedged.
“I will return. Never fear, my sword arm still works as it ever did.”
“But...”
“No more. I have made my decision. I am going. The men are preparing as we speak, I will take a platoon of palace guards for my personal protection, and we will set out at dawn, three days hence. That is my command.”
They bowed their heads in acquiescence and yet...and yet, did Grayson smile?
No, time to worry about that later. There were plans to be laid, preparations to be made. He waved a dismissal at them and he sat as they filed out, leaned back and rubbed his face when the door closed. Too much to do. Too many things to think of without adding the machinations of an ambitious and devious man into the mix.
He wished that Tilda was there. She had been his oasis, always able to soothe him with a word, a comforting touch, a light smile. And more than that, she had a way of thinking, a singular insight, that made fuzzy matters clear, that made difficult decisions easy. But she was not here. She may never be again and he felt her absence like a wound, like an amputated limb.
Gods, but he was tired.
He called for General Theissen. Of all the people at his court, it was the general he most trusted. Of course he trusted Gustav, and he supposed he trusted Terban, but Theissen had been his staunchest supporter for years. Even when he had been an arrogant young crown prince, and Theissen was his armsmaster, training him in the ways of the sword and combat, there had been a bond. The bond had never kept Theissen from giving his pupil a good slap upside the head when necessary—on the contrary, perhaps it was the strength of the bond that gave Theissen the singular right to so chastise the crown prince without fear. Perhaps it was the strength of the bond that coaxed Theissen to upbraid him even now when he thought it necessary. If the laws of protocol had allowed it, it would have been Theissen and not Gustav who held the second most powerful position in the kingdom.
A short time later when Theissen, marched in and threw Threimes a cursory salute, the king spoke low and earnest words. Theissen's eyes hardened, his expression stilled, grew serious to the point of severity, but he nodded, and when the king finished, Theissen promised that all would be as Threimes commanded. No hesitation, no arguments. Just straight, simple acceptance.
When Theissen left, Threimes blew a sigh of relief. He thanked the gods that Theissen was there. He thanked the gods, for he would never have been able to trust anyone else, maybe not even Tilda, with what he had just told Theissen.
Chapter 31
Corporal Hergis Townvald had asked for his posting. He had wanted to be near the forefront, to clean the northern border of the Dakariin filth. After distinguishing himself in the line of duty against raiders in the south, his commander had cited him with a commendation and promoted him to corporal with the chance to go where he would when his next duty assignment came up. And he had chosen Sharong. The commander had gaped at him in disbelief; she had thought he would choose a nice, cushy posting. Threimes perhaps, or Grayson.
Since his arrival some eight months before, there was only one occasion where he regretted that choice: this exact moment. He plodded down the road in his position amongst the infantry, pike held loosely in his hand, hide shield dragging behind him on the pitted dirt of the road that ran through the south central portion of the Boreal forest, trying to ignore the drum beats that blasted between his ears.
Less than twenty-four hours before, he had been on leave in Sharong City along with the rest of his squad. Anyone who had wanted to find them, would have had a difficult time for he and his mates had been bar-hopping down by the docks, spending their coppers on everything alcoholic, with no thought that anyone would be searching for them. But someone had: the major, in fact, and that pissant little rookie of a private had been sent for them, had hunted them through the docks district following their drunken trail of lechery and brawling, with some news that would have been disturbing if Hergis and his mates had not been so damned drunk. As it was, they had laughed at him and Trip told him to go bugger a skunk—drunk as he was, it had sounded more like “skugger a bunk”; the night before that had been the height of hilarity. But when they saw the order in the major's own hand, they had grumblingly followed the lick-spittle little prick back to the barracks.
He still vaguely remembered his sergeant telling them to get some sleep, still sort of recalled pouring himself, still clothed, into his cot, wishing he'd had the time to pick up a tasty treat, that cute little blond that had been flirting with him maybe, to bring back with him.
But morning had come, along with the inevitable effects following a night of too much drink. Of course, he had not thought it a problem. His leave was to finish at the end of that day; plenty of time to get himself back in proper order. Shortly after waking, they had been ordered to pack up their kits and muster to march by the changing of the guard, an hour hence.
So here he was, his squad marching with him, each looking as though death had crawled in through their bungholes and settled in for a nice long visit, as the sun glared down and bored through their eyeballs and boiled the gooey stuff behind (of course; it would have been too much to ask that the sun stay out of sight for a little while, at least until his head stopped trying to remove itself from his shoulders). His guts churned acidly, and he regretted his decision to be posted up in this godforsaken back woods garrison where the real action was supposed to be good and bloody, and where leave was supposed to be a respected covenant held between officers and their enlisted charges.
He supposed, if he had any mind to be pragmatic at all—which was rather difficult, all things considered—there was plenty of reason to roust the garrison to a forced march. Rumor had it Killhern was in the process of burning to the ground and there was a host of Dakariin sporting greater numbers than any Dakariin army had in living memory, and every garrison on the north road had been mobilized to intercept and destroy the savages.
Sounded like fun. Why could it not have waited until the next day?
He coughed, choked on the dust kicked up by the cavalry and by the first several ranks of infantry ahead. To his right, Trip slogged, ashen faced and sweating freely, obviously feeling the previous night as
keenly as Hergis was.
“How you doin, Trip?” he asked mildly.
From behind, Lef chuckled and groaned.
“Like shit. How ya think?”
“You look it too,” grumbled Herry from behind.
“Shut up, you pig sticker.”
“Aye, and last night I stuck a pig that looked an awful lot like your mother.”
“Aw bullshit,” shot Krendal. “You was in bed passed out like the rest of us.”
“Nice. Well done, Krendel. Way to keep up with the conversation, you bloody fool.”
Anyone happening by may have thought that a general brawl was about to commence, may in fact be led to believe that a brawl had already taken place judging by the bruises and scrapes that liberally marred the five men—mementos from their revelries. In actual fact, these five were best of friends, comrades, squad mates and drinking partners alike.
With Hergis's bloody luck, some visiting major or colonel that he did not know would pass by and think there was a bloody battle about to start, and being the corporal meant that it was up to him to keep order. Which meant he would take the blame. Besides, he was in no condition to withstand the bickering.
“All right, you turds,” Hergis growled. “Be quiet or I'll thump the lot of you.”
“Pfff. You look as bad as the rest of us, Herg,” said Lef. “I bet you couldn't thump a daisy right now.”
“Probably not but I ain't in the mood right now boys, eh? Give us a break, eh?”
They fell silent as they marched. It was a rare occasion indeed when he tossed around his rank.
At mess time, they pulled off the road to their assigned slot in their platoon formation and laid out their rolls before setting out for the fires and their waiting chow. It was never fine dining fare, but it was filling. That done, they headed back to their little part of the camp and enjoyed the evening as best they could.
And toward lights-out, a few tosses of the dice decided the watch for that night. Grumbling, Trip stalked off to take his turn while the rest went to ground, nursing the remaining traces of their headaches.
* * *
The morning dawned gray. Now that their hangovers were by and large memories (except for some remaining jitters now and then) a nice bit of sun might have been pleasant accompaniment to their march. But beyond the bruised sky, the day was a mild one. Cool but not cold, with a slight breeze that refreshed without being uncomfortable, it was a day that seemed custom made for a long march. Even the bit of rain that passed overnight was a helpful thing. It had not been enough to turn the road into a boot-sucking mire but rather just enough to keep the dust on the ground.
Being in the middle of the host on the march, they were not required to reveille until twenty minutes after the vanguard and they took advantage of it, right to the last second when their sergeant's voice cut through the quiet activity, announcing that they had fifteen minutes to get their kit packed.
He and his squad were veterans—Lef was the youngest at twenty-four but even he had nearly ten years in the king's army—and so, working like a well-oiled machine, they were some of the first in their platoon ready to march.
Without the drums in his skull, Hergis was able to more fully appreciate the march. Sure it was hard work, especially in the dead of summer or in the depths of winter, and sure he found his muscles sore after hour six or seven but really, how bad was it? All he was doing was going for a long walk in decent weather and for that, he was getting paid not just his regular rate of two coppers a day, but he was getting campaign bonus on top of it. That worked out to about another two coppers a day. That meant that he was earning nearly a full silver every two days. Not a bad haul for going on a long walk. Then there was the scenery. Early fall, this far north? He was a man whose word hoard was small; the best he could come up with was 'right pretty'. Even under the ugly gray, the colors seemed to pop from the trees as he and his crew plodded by.
Of course, he knew it would not last. He was no fool; he had seen plenty of real war. At thirty-two winters, he was getting to be considered an old-timer—few pikemen lived much past thiry-five or so though he had known a couple that claimed to be well over forty—a veteran whose opinion counted for a lot with the younger generation. When Herry and Lef started bragging about how much fun it would be to slaughter the Dakariin savages, it was up to him and Krendal (who himself was thirty-five and was the eldest of the whole platoon) to put them in their places which they did with a few sharp words.
Midday came and went, and they ate their rations on the march. Orders came from ahead that Colonel Ris was unhappy with their progress and they would be marching through lunch mess for the next few days to make up for time lost. The colonel was a good enough sort, but he tended to be a little pushy at times.
They set camp an hour later that night; the sergeant bawled for them to set bed rolls but no tents as they were to be off early the next morning. Several groans were uttered at this, including one from Lef which Hergis promptly stifled with a smack upside the head, but soon all were laid out and ready for their cold rations.
* * *
The third day passed as uneventfully—except for a good laugh when Trip caught his toe on a mostly buried rock and went sprawling. That was good for a day's worth of jokes about his nickname. The fourth day and fifth also went by with nothing to note, and Hergis found his spirits rising as the march went on. He really did love a nice walk. It was an added bonus that at the end of it, they would get the chance to blood their pikes on Dakariin swine.
On the dawning of the sixth, they arose as usual, in the gray-black of predawn, that strange time that straddled the worlds of day and night, and they packed their kit and started off.
Hergis was not quite himself that day. By sundown the previous day, he had been sneezing and coughing, and he awoke that morning with a nose that ran like a river. His joints felt achy and he just felt so tired.
Nothing serious, the medic said. Just a little chill. He will feel like death in a handbasket for the next two or three days, she said, and then it would disappear—plenty of time before the fighting started. She gave him a tonic to help him sleep, and another one to take in the morning before setting out to lessen the aches but there was nothing else to be done, and so he plodded on, his good cheer a little muffled by the cotton that seemed to have been stuffed in his ears. At least the tonic had the added effect that his mind seemed to become numb. He dimly wondered if the tonic was really no more than some whiskey with a few herbs tossed in to change the taste a little.
So it was that when the alarm came a short while later, Hergis did not notice at first. He kept plodding, feeling a little sorry for himself as the northern flank became a flurry of activity. Screams started, followed by shouts, then more screams. Odd, he thought, what was that he was hearing?
It was Krendal who gripped his shoulder with vise-like strength and spun him so that they were eye to eye. His eyes were wide, feverish with what, even in his daze, Hergis recognized as the onset of battle-rage.
“We are ambushed. Come on.”
Shaking the mucky streams of lassitude from his thoughts, Hergis gripped his pike more firmly and followed Krendal. Glancing north then west, he saw something that seemed odd. That should not have been. Dakariin? Here? Last he had heard, they were all at Killhern. The worst part was, there were a lot of them, a horde of them, an ocean, pouring from the trees and smashing into their northern flank and western rear.
He saw the banners for the fourth and fifth platoons, saw the men gathering there, preparing their shield walls. He thought he could just make out The seventh through ninth setting formation farther off. In the east, near the forefront, he saw a mass of cavalry preparing their charge as he took up his position under the banner for the sixth platoon, some few ranks behind the front line.
Arrows darkened the sky, sergeants roared for raised shields, instinct kicked in. He dropped to one knee, raised his shield, heard a thunk-thunk and twin shivers ran up his arm. Somewhere in the
distance a terrible ululation picked up; it took him a moment to realize they were Dakariin battle-cries voiced by a thousand—ten thousand—throats.
To his right, Krendal peeked under the rim of his shield and grinned tightly. To his left, Trip propped his pike on the ground with the point extending into the air.
“Where're the others?” Hergis shouted to be heard over the clamor.
“Herry's behind you. Lef-”
Krendal gasped as an arrow managed to find its way between the hair width cracks in the shields and seemed to sprout from his thigh. He grunted as he flopped back to sit hard on the loose and slightly damp soil.
“Oh shit. Medic! Herry, cover me. Take it easy, Krendal,” Hergis said. “We need a medic over here!”
As if anyone would hear him over the din.
Ahead, the thunder of hooves, the clash of metal, more screams. A triumphant shout.
Pale faced, Krendal grinned and pointed at his leg. “What this? Just a flesh wound. Come on.”
Hoisting himself back up, Krendal tried. He really did. As the order to press forward came, Krendal stood at Hergis's side and kept pace but soon it became apparent that the wound was worse than they thought and Krendal stumbled once, then again.
“Lef, help Krendal. Get him out of here.”
“Lef's dead,” Herry called. “Took one in the ribs a while ago.”
A while? How long had they been at this? He glanced up, saw the sun approaching its zenith. Already? He knew time had a way of playing tricks in the middle of battle. He should; he had seen it often enough, but still it seemed strange, almost eerie, that he had managed to lose somewhere near what he reckoned was three or four hours.
He did not pause to consider Lef. Not yet. This was battle; consideration came for the living first.
There was a lull. It was not that there was quiet, not a cessation of commotion. No, just a decrease in the frenetic pace. A glance over the shoulder of the rank in front of him showed the rear ranks of Dakariin disengaging and disappearing back into the trees.
