“Pardon me, that I must speak of hard things.” Alcaeus put a hand—very tentatively—on his captain’s arm.
Gabriel nodded.
“The sorcerer has taken Ticondaga. His forces increase every day—the northern Wild is flocking to him.” He shrugged. “Ser John Crayford and Ser Ricar have the northern army at Broadalbin north of Albinkirk. They have some survivors from Ticondaga, including your brother Aneas. I am to tell you that the duchess and earl both died in the taking.” Alcaeus paused. “I’m sorry.”
“I already knew. But Gavin will have to be told in the morning. I told him—I felt it in the aethereal. He will be glad Aneas is alive.” Gabriel tried to smile, but nothing came. “I will be glad, too, when I have some gladness in me.”
“I have an imperial messenger from Ser John. He has four hundred lances and he’s ordering out the shire troops, but he will not attempt to make a stand in the wilderness. He wants us to know he’s been fighting every day.”
Gabriel tried to see it. If Thorn was at Ticondaga and all the creatures of the Wild were with him…
“Where is Ser John?” he asked.
“Broadalbin, north of Albinkirk. His messenger bird reported that he fears for Dorling.” Alcaeus paused. “I thought that we believed Dorling unassailable, because of our… friend.”
Gabriel stroked his beard. “I’ve made a number of mistakes in the last few weeks, Alcaeus. The greatest of them was assuming that Thorn was less gifted than I am. He’s not. He’s as willing to take risks. Suddenly he’s daring. He may risk Dorling. He may even be right to.”
“There’s more,” Alcaeus said. “Harcourt on the west wall fell to the Faery Knight yesterday. I didn’t hear—the message went to Albinkirk by bird and I only have it from Ser John. Another army crossed the Great River just east of N’pano over a week ago, from the north.”
“Oh, sweet Christ,” Gelfred said. The man who never swore.
Alcaeus nodded. “One must assume that the Faery Knight and the sorcerer have come to some accommodation. The Faery Knight has an army—or he wouldn’t have taken Harcourt.” Alcaeus hesitated. “I’m sorry to say that Harmodius was said to be with the Faery Knight.”
Gabriel took a deep steadying breath. “Ahh,” he said.
Gelfred spat. “First Towbray and now Harmodius,” he said. “I knew the magus was black-hearted, but this—”
“Judge not rashly,” Gabriel said. He drank another sip of wine. “Toby, are you there?”
Toby appeared at his side.
“All officers at first light.” He nodded. “Another busy day.”
“May I make a recommendation now, in private?” Alcaeus asked.
“Of course,” Gabriel said. The Morean was solemn—he put a hand out and rested it on Gabriel’s shoulder.
“If you think we can trust Kronmir, then I say—take Harndon. Now. Destroy this upstart archbishop, crush him against the city walls, finish the rebellion.” Alcaeus waved his hands.
“I like that, as right now the archbishop thinks we’re the rebels.” Gabriel managed a wry smile.
“And then hold Harndon.” Alcaeus shrugged.
“Against the Wild?” Gabriel asked.
Alcaeus nodded. “We have a saying—when the tide rises, climb a big rock. Harndon is the biggest rock. And my reading of the ancients is that this has happened before—all of it. The big invasions, the sudden welling forth of the Wild. Places like Liviapolis and Harndon are built to withstand—exactly this.” He paused. “I have this, too. It is an imperial message. But then you are still, I hope, an imperial officer.”
He handed over a thin piece of the nearly transparent paper that the messenger birds—the big imperial ones—carried.
The Venike ambassador in the city reports that the armies of Galle and Arelat were destroyed in a great battle south of Nunburg in Arelat. Venike has formally requested assistance from the Emperor.
Gabriel spread the map out and stuck his green-hilted dagger through one corner and his eating knife through the opposite.
“That’s for another day,” he said. Oh, Mr. Smythe, for an hour of your time. I think we’re losing.
“We’re five days from Albinkirk, moving fast,” he said. He nodded to himself. “Dorling’s about the same from Albinkirk—shorter as the crow flies, but the road is dreadful.”
Gelfred and Alcaeus both agreed.
Gabriel thought a moment. “If we lose Dorling, we can’t link up with the Emperor.”
“And leave the Faery Knight unopposed in the west, and the archbishop free to sack Lorica?” Alcaeus shook his head.
Gabriel scratched under his chin—he had three mosquito bites that seemed to occupy as much of his mind as Blanche and the Faery Knight combined.
“Any force coming from the west has to pass Lissen Carak,” he said. “A tough nut.”
“Small garrison,” Alcaeus said.
“Not if you think in the aethereal.” He didn’t see a solution. If there was one at all, it was going to involve some miracles of marching, and every hour counted, starting a day ago.
But he had the glimmer of a plan. It was not his former plan at all. That galled him—that a plan had completely failed.
So much subtlety, gone with the arrow that killed the King.
“Right,” he said. “I assume Ser Gerald Random is in Lorica?”
“No, he and most of the men who came with him are camped between us and the beeves. The Hillmen.” Alcaeus waved.
“I need Ser Gerald, Sukey, Tom, Ranald and—” He looked around. “That’s a start.”
“First light?” Toby said hopefully.
“Now,” Gabriel said.
He was never going to get to kiss Blanche again. He tried not to let that influence his decisions, but he reckoned that if he could end the meetings and find her…
Too late for all of that. By tomorrow, the moment would be gone.
He shrugged. His shrug was a dismissal of all that. Let love go hang, he thought bitterly.
Toby murmured in his ear, “Ser Thomas is—er—with Sukey.”
“Good, you can get them both at once,” Gabriel said.
Let love go hang. “Get Sister Amicia, too.”
The map was still pinned to the ground with daggers and eating implements.
The captain’s bearing made it plain that this was business. There was almost no grumbling. Toby and Nell built up the fire and began to serve roast pork and dumplings left over from a dinner most of them had never received.
“You bid fair to ruin a beautiful night,” Tom grumbled.
The captain shook his head. “The world,” he said, “is going to shit all around us. This is for everything, friends. So drink some wine, stretch your wits and get with me.”
Alcaeus and Gelfred reviewed the intelligence reports while the rest chewed pork, spat gristle, and wolfed down the dumplings.
When Gelfred was done explaining the archbishop’s position and what he had in his army, the captain nodded sharply.
“Tom, will you sell me all your beef?” he asked.
Tom shrugged. “Market price?” he asked.
“On the nail,” the captain said.
Tom nodded, and spat in his hand.
The captain turned to Ser Gerald. “Loan me the cost of the beeves?” he asked.
“Against what?” Gerald asked cautiously.
“Against that I’m now the Earl of Westwall, or Gavin is, and the Duke of Thrake, too. I own the whole northern trade from one end of the wall to the other, and if we win this war, we’ll make money as if we are transmuting water into gold.” He turned to his brother. “I’m sorry, brother. I’m not as crass as I sound, but…”
Gavin grunted. “I get it,” he said. “They’re dead, and we need money.”
Random eyed Tom Lachlan. “Yes,” he said.
The captain spat in his hand and clasped hands with Tom.
“Where do you want them?” Tom asked.
“I want them marched back north—fi
fty head at every stopping point in a six-day march, and I want the rest grazing in the fields south and west of Albinkirk in one week.”
“Tar’s tits,” Tom croaked. “That’s a mort of driving.”
“You’re the Drover,” Gabriel said. “Then keep going north and get your levies out of the Hills and join Ser John at Dorling. Take whatever beasts you need to feed the Emperor and four thousand men there.”
“And hold Dorling?” Tom asked.
The captain shook his head. They were perfectly silent.
“No. I’m sorry, Tom, but unless the Wyrm wants to fight for it, we’re sacrificing Dorling.”
“Why am I going there, then?” Lachlan asked.
“Because the levies will only rise for you or Ranald or Donald Dhu. And because I can trust you to follow orders—words, by the way, that no one else has ever said about you, Tom.” He smiled across the fire, and Tom grinned back.
“Only if I like ’em, boyo.”
“Raise your levies and hold the Inn until the Emperor comes. And then retreat to Albinkirk, making the road behind you a wilderness.” Gabriel leaned forward.
Tom crossed his arms. “With my Hillmen and the Emperor, I can defeat fucking Thorn.”
“No, Tom, you can’t. Not without me and Amicia and all the angels in heaven, too.” Gabriel shook his head vehemently. “Unless the Wyrm’s willing to go in person. And I shouldn’t even say that out loud. But if he is—then fight.”
Bad Tom scratched under his nose. “Retreating is not my best way,” he said.
“Tom, if you pull this off and get the Emperor and Ser John Crayford alive to Albinkirk, I promise you the greatest battle ever.” Gabriel nodded. “One toss, one fight, for everything.”
Tom raised a hand the size of most men’s heads. “Six days with my herd to Albinkirk. Two days hard riding to the Inn if no one stops us.” He frowned. “Eight days, at least. Where will you be?”
Gabriel scratched his bites. “Sukey, I need you to start north with the camp and the baggage tomorrow. Leave enough tents standing here for the Royal Guard and the company packed tight, and take the rest on the road. We’ll catch you at Sixth Bridge.”
Sukey nodded. “I can do that,” she said. “How soon can I start them up and packing?”
“Give them another hour,” the captain said.
He turned back to Tom while Sukey wrote on her wax tablets. “In eight days, I need to be two days south of Albinkirk,” he said. “Because the rest of us are going to turn on the archbishop right now—today. Win or die, and no quarter.” He looked around. “No quarter for the archbishop, that is. The rest of them can surrender as they need.”
Random all but cried out. “You’re going south?”
“All or nothing,” Gabriel replied. “And you and your friends are going straight to Harndon if we win.”
Ser Gerald shook his head. “Have you lost your wits, Gabriel?”
There were people present who’d never heard the captain’s name used so familiarly.
“In ten days we can have Harndon without a bolt loosed or a man dead,” Random insisted.
Ser Gabriel nodded. “In ten days, Thorn can have done a hundred years of damage to the north country. In fifteen days—the world could be over.”
Alcaeus was shaking his head vehemently. “Ser Gerald is correct,” he insisted. “The archbishop’s cause is lost even now.”
It was Gabriel’s turn to shake his head. He looked past his brother at Ser Michael, awake and yawning.
“It’s your father,” he said. “The archbishop will crown him King, won’t he?”
Michael nodded heavily. “We have the next claim—it’s distant, but—yes.” He sighed. “Of course, that’s how they bought Pater. It’s what Pater always wanted.” He looked at the Red Knight. “Of course, your claim through your mother ain’t bad.”
Gabriel ignored him. “I need Gavin—I’m sorry, brother—I need you to go west—now. As soon as dawn breaks. Somewhere on the south Cohocton, Mountjoy is fighting. Or sitting watching the border. Either way, he has all the Royal Foresters and most of the western lords of the Brogat.”
“Wasn’t he attainted?” asked Ser Michael.
“Only the fool archbishop would attaint a man with an army already in the field,” Gavin said. “I know Mountjoy. I’m going to marry his daughter. He wouldn’t leave his post.” He nodded. “You want him?”
“At Albinkirk,” Gabriel said.
“I still think you should move north yourself,” Gavin said. He rubbed the scales on his shoulder. “The sorcerer and his allies—they’re the real threat.”
“In ten days, the archbishop might be alone with two hundred Gallish lances,” Gabriel said. “But he might be the Chancellor of Alba with a thousand lances and some reluctant Alban support. Listen, friends—this is all beyond my experience. I’m listening when you speak. But my spirit says that if we march north, we’ll never regain Harndon, and if we march south, we’ll never regain Albinkirk or Lissen Carak.”
Unnoticed beyond the firelight, Sister Amicia sighed and spoke softly, but everyone strained to hear her.
“As Gabriel well knows, if we lose Lissen Carak, we lose a great deal.” She shook her head. “I am not at liberty to say all I know.”
“It is possible that if we lose Lissen Carak we lose everything,” Gabriel said. “Amicia, I have to ask you to ride with Tom, and go to Lissen Carak with all the knights of the Order. It’s all the garrison I can put in, but with the men we hired last year, it should prove enough.”
Amicia shook her head. “You will need me tomorrow.”
Gabriel shook his head back. “Sister, everyone needs you. Your healing powers are beyond anything—anything. But you—you yourself—are the most potent relief force I can send to your convent.”
Very quietly, she said, “But you might die.”
Gabriel met her on the bridge. “If I die, Michael and Tom and Sauce will pull it out,” he said. “If Lissen Carak falls—then he opens the gates, doesn’t he, Amicia?”
She bit her lip—no mean feat in the aethereal.
“I think that’s what this is about,” she said. “The Abbess never told me.”
“I was in those tunnels,” Gabriel said. “I guessed then.”
Amicia met his eye. “There are other places. Lissen Carak is not the only one.”
Gabriel shrugged. “It’s the one I can prevent,” he said. “I think that the Faery Knight is against Thorn. I do not think Harmodius has turned. But Alcaeus thinks I’m naive.”
Amicia sighed. “I want to believe in Harmodius,” she allowed. “I will go to Lissen Carak.”
Gabriel said, “We can win this.”
Amicia nodded. “I want to believe you. But is it not a basic tenant of war not to divide your forces? And are you not dividing yourself in every direction?”
He grinned. “Oh, dear Amicia. Yes. But I must divide you now to have a chance to combine you all later.”
She shook her head, and he left her, however much his soul cried out for him to stay—
Gabriel looked around. “So—tomorrow. Daybreak—one hour. Three battles. Ser Michael with the company in the van. Ser Ranald with the Royal Guard in the main body with the Queen, the young King, and any men of Lorica who will accompany us. Ser Gerald with the rearguard, commanding all the Harndoners we can raise.”
Ser Gerald narrowed his eyes. “If Gelfred is right—and I’m sure he is—he’s got two days of entrenchments behind which to cower. How are you going to get a battle we can win?”
The Red Knight laughed. “De Vrailly sent us a herald. I’m going to challenge him to battle.”
Chapter Eleven
Pennons flapped and flags waved. It was a beautiful late spring in the Brogat.
“I still think that we were better behind our stockades, and bastions,” the archbishop said.
“He challenged us,” Jean de Vrailly said. He was a figure of shining steel, towering over the archbishop who had chosen to
wear his state robes of purple and ermine.
“Let him wear himself out against our walls,” the archbishop said, with a certain whine.
“He challenged us,” Jean de Vrailly said again.
“I don’t think that—”
De Vrailly turned his helmeted head. His visor was open and his angelic face seemed to shine from within. “Eminence, you make me regret I ever invited you here to help me rule this realm. I am a knight. The order of knighthood is the only one to which I have ever aspired. The Red Knight has challenged us to battle.”
“And I say—”
“Silence.” De Vrailly spoke sharply, and the archbishop flinched. No one had ever told him to be silent in all his life.
“You think I am a fool who believes in an outdated code. You think that we should cower behind our trenches and build trebuchets, conduct mass killings in Harndon to silence the city and goad our enemies into throwing themselves at our bastions and earthworks. I tell you, Eminence, that you are the fool, and that if we do that, we will find ourselves starving in a ring, a sea, of enemies, none of them contemptible. We lack the manpower to cow Harndon even if we had no foe in the field against us. The Harndoners saw the Queen and the babe. The challenge is just—the Red Knight knows the law of war. But even if it were unjust, we would be fools to do as you suggest. Do you understand me?”
The archbishop was red in the face. He struggled to find words, and finally, he turned his horse, summoned his guard, and rode away.
Ser Eustace d’Aubrichecourt turned his helmeted head. “Well said, Ser Jean.”
Other knights murmured, and while they were doing so, a herald appeared at the far wood line. He rode across the field with one man behind him, cantering easily. He held the traditional green flag that heralds bore in times of war.
He came over the low rise—really, no more than the height of a man—that stood at long bowshot from de Vrailly’s lines. Behind him, horsemen appeared in the wood line.
De Vrailly’s men began to loosen swords in their sheaths and tighten straps and girths.
De Vrailly watched the herald come with nothing in his heart. He had closed himself to his angel since the day after the tournament, and he felt as if he was already dead.
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