by Duncan Lay
Barrett was suspicious of the friendlier Martil. The warrior was up to something. No matter, he was sure he could outsmart him. ‘Agreed.’
Once more Martil gathered the squad leaders around.
‘Tarik, I want you to take your best two archers with you, and strike this group here,’ Martil indicated the group three in from the end of the line. ‘Pick off their scouts, then fade into the forest before they realise how many of you there are. They’ll react by blowing the warning horn. When we hear that, we’ll strike the end group here.’
‘How will we know when to attack?’ Tarik asked.
‘Barrett will send a bird as a messenger,’ Martil gestured towards the wizard.
‘Expect to see an owl arrive, and fly down onto your shoulder. As soon as that happens, you know to attack.’ Barrett gestured, and an owl flew down to join him. ‘This one.’
Tarik looked over to where the bird sat on Barrett’s shoulder, unblinking.
‘I’ve heard of using bird calls to signal an attack before, but this is ridiculous,’ he muttered.
The others laughed, and Martil had to join in as well. Men who could laugh before a fight were ready for battle. The trick was to ensure those easy victories continued.
‘Fools! Scum! Worms!’ Havrick raged at the impassive Jennar and his remaining sergeants and officers. ‘You outnumber them four to one and you let them kill nearly half a company! Two searching parties destroyed now! And we still don’t know where the camp is!’
‘We just followed your plan, sir,’ Jennar said stolidly. ‘We are acting as bait and trying to get closer to their camp. They have just been able to take bites out of us.’
‘Very amusing! Perhaps I should send you back to the Duke and you can entertain him with your comments?’ Havrick stepped close to Jennar, so he could smell the sweat and leaf mould on the man’s clothes. ‘I know your game. You seek to discredit me with the Duke. You want my captaincy. You are jealous of me!’
Jennar looked at him blankly but Havrick was in full cry.
‘Tomorrow you search again, and to the right. Only this time we search in groups of fifty. No more will they be able to kill our men so easily. My light horse will help you.’
‘Sir, if we are in groups of fifty, we shall be able to cover only a small amount of ground,’ Jennar warned. ‘It will take us many more days.’
‘Then the heavy cavalry will forage for supplies. These hills are filled with farms.’
Merren’s childhood had been one of study and work. Her father had refused to have much to do with her, beyond pushing for her to learn her lessons well. One of her nurses told her it was because she looked too much like his beloved dead wife, her mother. The result of this was the lack of anything resembling a normal childhood. Every moment of her day was carefully timetabled, so nothing was wasted. She could listen to music, or learn to dance—but only so far as these activities related to her duties. Spare time was something that did not exist. She worked, she ate and she slept. And then, as the Queen-in-waiting, it got even worse. The throne was too great a responsibility to be diverted by anything frivolous. Looking back now, she could see the irony that many of her male predecessors had deemed such activities as drinking, whoring and hunting as vital to the crown, and devoted much of their time to mastering these.
So when Karia announced she wanted to play dolls, she was unsure what to do. Her first inclination had been to make some excuse. But her only alternative was to go through tally scrolls or look at maps, or worry about what was happening out in the woods or back in Norstalos City. So, she reasoned, how hard could it be?
A few minutes later, she was regretting that attitude. Karia wanted her to be the voices of at least three dolls, and was quick to criticise when Merren forgot which one was which, or used the wrong accent. It was also a game that made her feel wistful. She was supposed to be the handsome prince and the princess, as well as a maid, while Karia’s doll was the queen.
‘The beautiful princess always marries a handsome prince, and they live happily ever after,’ Karia explained the basic saga storyline. ‘Of course she can be a princess in disguise, and he can be a prince in disguise, but even if they think they are only servants, they’re secretly royalty. And even if they’ve been promised to someone else, they end up with each other, because they’re the handsomest and beautifullest people in the land.’
Merren had to struggle not to say something. In her experience of history, the princess often ended up with whoever the king decreed was the best prospect, or had to marry a fool who was more in love with his own mirror. So she began to change the game, making the prince act like an idiot and have the princess rule by herself.
‘That’s funny,’ Karia giggled, as Merren made the prince doll put on a dress and pretend he was beautiful. ‘That prince is silly. We won’t make him the hero. The princess can marry her champion, instead.’
Merren looked carefully at Karia. True, this was a standard saga plot but it was a little close for comfort.
All her life she had been considered a prize by men. From the first time she had been officially welcomed to court she had been seen as a ticket to riches. Men had tried to impress her, to catch her eye and, after Gello’s disgrace, tell her why they should be King. Telling endlessly boring stories about themselves. She was heartily sick of it. To them, she was either a crown, or a breeding device. Or both. Then there was the whole issue with Lahra. Knowing there was a woman who looked like her being so foully treated by many of her nobles made her skin crawl. Just talking to some of them was difficult enough. She could not help but wonder what was going on inside their minds, what filth they were imagining while they spoke to her.
Martil was different. For a start he was not trying to impress her with his stories. Most importantly, she felt he was attracted to her, rather than the crown she wore. The sort of man who could look after a small girl was rare—and the warrior who would look after a child was rarer still. She found it hard to reconcile this side of him with the stories of Bellic; men, women and children all killed. Although it did make him more interesting. The combination of danger and shelter. She was confident she could encourage his softer side, but it would have to be played carefully. After all, there was still the problem of the succession. She had to marry a noble. Perhaps she could use Karia’s techniques on them. They all wanted a chance at Prince Consort. It was just a matter of playing them off against each other. In the meantime, she could relax and enjoy playing with Karia. In some ways, she could see why it had helped Martil. It gave her a chance to just be herself and not have to worry about being a ruler—or imagine what might be happening out in the woods.
Martil had to admit that, while wizards had proved mostly useless in the southern wars, Barrett was proving invaluable in this campaign. He had been up with the birds, literally, and had soon been able to report that Havrick had changed his plans: large parties of armed men were now scouring the woods in the wrong direction, while much smaller parties of cavalry were heading out with wagons towards the many farms in the district. Barrett’s magical technique for travelling vast distances was also of use. They could not travel far, because keeping the gateway open long enough to allow so many to get through was a massive task. But he was still able to help them step into a tree on one side of the searchers, and emerge a few miles away, in a stand of trees near a small valley that was about to be visited by Havrick’s men.
Martil and the others had arrived in time to lure the cavalry into a reckless charge that Tarik’s archers had shattered—but not in time to stop the troopers killing several farmers.
A dozen of the troopers were still alive, although all were wounded, either by arrows or in falls from their horses. Rocus had his men drag them clear of the horses and then dragged the armour and helms off the men, even the wounded. They might have been tempted to let the wounded keep their armour, for ripping a mail hauberk off a man with a broken arm or shoulder was not an easy thing to do. But the sight of the murdered f
armers removed their sympathy.
‘They should never have tried to charge us,’ Rocus said.
‘No. But then cavalry are not very bright. The horses have all the brains,’ Martil grinned. ‘Good to see you are learning, Lieutenant.’
He was distracted from the tally by Wime, who returned with the remaining farmers and their families. ‘Captain, I think you need to talk to them,’ the militiaman said.
‘The wagons?’ Martil ignored the suggestion for the moment.
‘My men are just moving them closer together so they’ll burn better. The wagoners have all fled,’ Wime reported. ‘Those bastards had the women and girls in the wagons already.’
‘Aye, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about,’ the oldest farmer said.
Martil looked at the group. It was several families, with plenty of children. The older girls and the younger wives were being comforted by the others.
‘I am Captain Martil, and I serve Queen Merren. What do you want?’
‘Firstly, to thank you for saving us from these bastards. They just rode in and told us they were soldiers of Duke Gello, then they took the women and our animals! Are you going to stay here and protect us now?’
This was what Martil had been afraid of. ‘We cannot. There are far more of them, and if they knew we were here, they would bring hundreds of men and destroy this valley.’
‘That was what we thought. And I suppose they’ll be back?’
‘They will,’ Martil admitted. It was just too rich a target.
‘Then we want to come with you.’
‘We want to fight!’ a young man in his early twenties declared angrily.
Martil almost had to struggle to keep the smile from his face. It was as he had predicted. Revenge was a powerful motivator.
‘Who are you?’ Martil looked at the young farmer. He had broad shoulders and brown hair, and a friendly-looking face that was now twisted with anger and grief.
‘Sirron. They killed my father and uncles. Me and my brothers want revenge.’
Barrett stepped up beside Martil. ‘This is perfect. Recruits for our cause,’ he whispered.
‘And the Dragon Sword had nothing to do with it. It’s all the work of Havrick,’ Martil muttered back, although he surreptitiously checked the hilt, just in case. Then he turned back to the farmers.
‘You are welcome to come back with us. How many want to fight?’
The older farmers were too old to fight but between them they had eight sons aged from their early twenties to their mid-teens, all strengthened by farm work and just in need of some training.
‘You’ll serve with Lieutenant Wime and his men. Wime, make sure you assign a couple of your sergeants to watch them. I want them back here with clothes and livestock, and those wagons burned as fast as possible.’
As they hurried off to collect their possessions, Martil turned to Barrett. Since their conversation in the forest, they had been able to work together without arguing, pleasing Merren no end. Now he would put that cautious friendship to the test.
‘I have a few questions for you. Can you keep the gateway open long enough to get goats and some cattle through?’
‘As long as each is held by a person touching my staff. We cannot just drive them through; who knows where they would end up, or what would happen to them. We are talking about a difficult and demanding piece of magic here…’
‘Yes, yes, I know your powers are unbelievable. Can you do it?’
Barrett gritted his teeth. ‘One day you will learn the incredible amount of work and study that has gone into my helping you. Then you might appreciate it when I say yes. What else?’
‘We cannot tell the Queen what happened out here. If she knows that Havrick’s men are leaving on a raping and pillaging mission each morning, what do you think her reaction will be?’
‘She’ll want us to stop them.’
‘Aye. And when we do, we’ll stop the flow of recruits. We need to use Havrick to get the countryside ready to rise in anger. This is what we have been waiting for! All the time we have been worried the people have become too timid, that they are not ready to rise up and join the Queen’s cause. Well, they will have no choice if Havrick sets his men loose on them! But if we stop Havrick too soon, we’ll be back to where we started.’
Barrett stared at him, appalled. ‘So you want men to be killed, farms burned and women raped?’
‘No, but I’m not giving those orders. Havrick is. I just need to take advantage of it. So can you keep your tongue under control?’
Barrett shook his head. ‘This is not the action of a Dragon Sword wielder,’ he said finally.
‘This is what we need to do to win,’ Martil countered.
‘I’ll think about it,’ was all Barrett would say.
‘Take as long as you want. Every day we leave them will bring us more recruits.’ Martil turned away from the wizard. Victory was all that mattered. The complacent Norstalines would be shocked out of their passivity by Havrick’s brutality and then he would have plenty of recruits. Why, then, did he feel so guilty?
Conal had been nervous about working with Count Sendric at first. After all, Queen Merren had told him the man was a noble of the old school, who rarely talked to peasants. But after the first few days, when the only times they had spoken were for Sendric to give orders, the Count had gradually thawed. Part of this was due to the efficient way Conal carried out those orders but the ex-bandit felt his ability to deflect the Queen’s anger and frustration during council meetings had been the real turning point. Sendric had, of course, seen the Queen in action for years in the Royal Council. Anyone who could deal with her so effectively automatically won his respect, even if he was a former bandit. Although that part of Conal’s life was slowly fading from his memory. It was strange. His memories of his years in the militia, which had seemed so hazy when he was living under Danir in Thest, were crystal clear now. Instead it was the things he had done and said as a bandit that were like mist. They seemed more like a tale from a saga than something that had happened to him. Since Martil had walked into his inn, his life had dramatically changed for the better—apart from the whole tankard-of-urine incident, of course. Feeling like a man again was a treasure beyond price. It took an effort to force his mind away from these thoughts and onto what the Count was saying. It seemed the old noble was reevaluating his life, his standards and the things he had lived by. The mutilation and death of his daughter had opened his eyes to reality.
‘I regret it now, of course, but I did not make things easy for the Queen,’ the Count admitted.
The pair of them were walking back down the tunnel into the town. Naturally they did not want to come up in either the stables or the keep itself but the Count intended to use the third exit from the tunnel, into the cellars of Rocus’s old house. The walk was a long one, and it was inevitable they talked to pass the time.
‘I had to be careful. After all, my daughter was her chief lady-in-waiting, while my dislike of Duke Gello and his scheming mother, Ivene, had gone back years. If I wanted to obtain a fair share of taxes for my district, I had to make deals with other nobles, which usually meant Gello’s supporters, such as Cessor and Worick. If I had just supported the Queen, and opposed what Gello wanted, my town would have suffered. Naturally I did not think Gello would go so far as to steal the Dragon Sword! I just thought he wanted to get his hands on as much power as possible, then ensure his son was named the next King. But she did not make things easy, either. She has a terrible tongue on her, does our Queen. You don’t want to cross her in the Royal Council!’
Conal muttered agreement. He was tempted to point out that by only doing what was best for himself, rather than what was best for his country, the Count had brought his troubles upon himself. But he was getting on well with Sendric now, and did not want to spoil that by highlighting inconvenient truths.
‘And the other nobles?’ he merely asked.
‘Obviously Gello’s men knew what was goin
g on all the time, they were well organised and came into each meeting with a strategy for dividing the opposition and winning the vote. I mean, such a thing had never been done before!’
Conal had to bite his tongue and change the subject before he said something he would regret. ‘So who will we be meeting in Sendric?’ the old bandit asked.
‘First, we’ll make contact with Gratt. Then we shall talk to the town council. They’ll be able to tell us what the merchants and shopkeepers think.’
Conal was thankful the tunnel was dark, so he could roll his eyes, safe in the knowledge he would not be seen. The Count may be changing but there were some aspects of the old ways he held to.
‘And I can perhaps get a feel for how the ordinary people are thinking,’ he offered.
Sendric paused for a moment. ‘That is a good idea,’ he said, with some surprise.
17
Havrick stared at the map in mounting rage and frustration. How could they have slipped past his forces to strike at that forage party? Now he was running short of food. Some of the officers were talking about going on to half rations, although he was damned if he was going to go without because of the incompetence of others.
He refused to look up, to where Jennar and the other officers waited. A full day of searching through the woods had found nothing, although they had admittedly covered little ground because the large companies of men were finding it hard to move through the trees. Worse, today it was raining, a constant drizzle that slowed everything and dampened morale.
A squad had returned from the town with a slight ray of hope—a pair of protesting wizards, a young man with a long moustache and an old man with a patchy white beard. Neither inspired much confidence but they were better than nothing. This damned wizard Barrett was causing him no end of trouble.
‘We continue as before,’ Havrick declared. ‘Each supply party will now have fifty heavy cavalry as the escort. The local people must be helping them somehow. We must show them how foolish it is not to obey the orders of Duke Gello. Anyone you suspect of helping our foes, burn their farms and take everything they have. That will soon stop the flow of supplies to the enemy.’
