Harald-ARC

by David Friedman

  He reached out a hand, Justin took it.

  Three hours later, Harald plunged arms, face, into a pool at the forest edge. As the ripples died his reflection looked back. A little less like a butcher. He straightened, sore muscles complaining, whistled. The mare trotted over. Blood, his or other people's, was nothing new.

  Riding back to the field, he noticed a body of cavalry, dismounted, disarmed. A smaller number of cats were guarding them, one talking with one of his prisoners.

  "Hedin. Friends of yours?"

  "One of them—three years ago."

  "Interested in another try—starting now?"

  "Empire might have hostages."

  "I don't speak Belkhani. Put it to them, welcome to come over to our side, any that can without getting kin killed, reasonable terms, let me know. Can't promise them help afterwards, do what we can—no province I'd rather see out of the Empire. Fight for us, at least get back horses, arms, can go home when it's done."

  He took one more look at the prisoners—three hundred men, most of them still on their feet—rode back to the battlefield.

  Just before dark, he spoke with Justin again, this time on the field where tired legionaries were carrying away a last few men too badly wounded to walk.

  "I don't suppose you want to extend the truce till morning?"

  Harald responded with a friendly smile, shook his head.

  "Emperor decides to go home, leave me and my friends alone, sleep all you like. Not just now. Sun sets, hope you don't get killed, do my best to see you do."

  * * *

  By the time the camp came in sight, gold flag flying as bravely as when they set out, Justin was stumbling with exhaustion. He called a halt to dress ranks; however tired, he would come home in good order. The ragged mass of cavalry, horses, wounded, was past his power to deal with. At least the legions were still unbroken.

  The gate was closed; half a legion made only a skeleton garrison, but the junior commander should at least be able to find sentries who could see. Now it was opening. Behind him he heard a scout, something about the cavalry behind them. Justin didn't bother to turn around; without looking he could feel the weight of the army that had followed them all day, never attacked. Soon it would lift. Harald had been unwilling, even against exhausted men, to risk storming last night's camp, unwilling to attack in the open in daylight. Two legions, behind walls, would be safe. He could sleep. The morning, the report to the Emperor, what followed... For now, sleep was enough.

  The gates swung closed. The ramparts were black with heads. Under the rain of arrows the front ranks, eyes on the ground, shields on their shoulders, melted. Justin turned. Arrows from the other side as well, cats finally closing. Archers in front, archers behind. The trumpeter next to him was staring at his horn, frozen in panic. Justin snatched it from his hand, raised it. Square, what was the call for form square? Something struck him in the throat. He tried to breathe. Out of the corner of his eye the banner staff coming down, reached out to catch it, stumbled, fell.

  * * *

  Justin tried to close his eyes against that final picture, his legion's banner, falling, around it a chaos of dead and dying. Close—his eyes were closed. He forced them open.

  A low cot in a tent full of bodies. One moved, another moaned—wounded men. He tried to form words, say something. One arm bound to his body; he lifted the other. His neck was wrapped in bandages. He closed his eyes. This time behind them was dark.

  He woke to someone lifting his head, water dripping into his mouth.

  "Swallow. Know it hurts but need to drink. Arrow through the neck, missed the artery. Out now. "

  He opened his mouth, swallowed. The voice was right. Swallowed again, again. Sank back into the familiar dark. Sleep.

  Half A Loaf

  Rash to count fortune your friend

  At a stranger's door.

  Something was wrong. By the river downhill from the tent, a rising clamor, coming closer. Voice of the guard outside:

  "Council, soldier. His Majesty ..."

  "Send him in."

  The soldier was out of armor, bare to the waist, half a dozen waterbags slung over his shoulder. He saw the Emperor, saluted:

  "Majesty, it's the river. It's dry."

  The man looked down at himself, flushed.

  "Pardon, Majesty. I thought..."

  "Pardoned. You were right. The river has stopped flowing completely?"

  "Yes, Majesty. There's still water in some of the pools."

  The Emperor looked around, thought a moment.

  "Twelfth, you aren't doing anything just now. The Karls are damming the river somewhere above Eston. Your job is to find the dam, take it, break it.

  "It could be a trick, with an ambush somewhere up slope. Watch for it. Harald's a tricky bastard.

  "Gerd, you're in charge of supplies—as of now, that includes water in pools in the riverbed. Fill every barrel we have, guard what's left, don't let some idiot wash in it. All up and down the valley, till you get to where the next river comes in.

  "There are big storage tanks in the castle. Empty our barrels into them, send the wagons west, refill at that stream that comes down from the hills, bring the barrels back full. The siege may last a while yet, we could get thirsty."

  The Emperor spent the next afternoon inspecting the siege, accompanied by the senior of the three legion commanders conducting it. Eston was ringed by earthworks, behind them archers. Further back, siege engines, slowly pounding at the city wall.

  "I suppose mining is hopeless?"

  The commander shook his head.

  "Like the castle—the whole thing is built on rock. You can see how the river bent around it. We'll use archers and engines to clear the walls, breach if we're lucky, rams, mostly for the gate, siege towers. The river's shallow—if it fills up again, men on that side can wade it when we go in. They'll still need ladders to get up to the wall—you can see it's almost a cliff—then over it. It isn't going to be easy. Wish I knew how many soldiers were inside."

  "Not as many as we thought."

  "Your Majesty has someone ...?"

  The Emperor shook his head, started back to his tent, the commander beside him:

  "The garrison of the castle was only five, six hundred—and the King wasn't there. I'm guessing it's the same story here. The last few days we were coming south the army ahead of us was getting smaller, not bigger. It was down to a thousand or so by the time we turned east. Five hundred south of us in the open, where we could count them, five hundred up the valley ahead of us where we couldn't.

  "We figured that was the whole army, most of it retreating behind walls. The real army was assembling out on the plains with Harald to lead it. I hope Justin is being careful."

  The Emperor stopped. The commander had turned his head, was listening to something. A moment later he heard it too—a dull roar from the direction of the river. It faded. For a moment he thought he could he could hear the noise of running water, then it was drowned out by distant voices.

  "Twelfth did it. "

  An officer was hurrying up from the river; the Emperor sat down on his chair in the tent, gestured to one of the servants, looked up as the man came into the tent.

  "The river's back. You don't look happy."

  "No, Majesty."

  "Any idiots camped in the riverbed got washed away, we're better off without them."

  "Yes, Majesty."

  "Don't just stand there, tell me what's wrong."

  "Bodies, Majesty. A lot of bodies. Twelfth legion."

  "What killed them?" Even as he spoke the Emperor was pushing himself out of his chair, reaching for his stick; the slope down to the river could be tricky.

  "I Don't know, Majesty."

  When he got to the river he saw the legionary physician leaning over one of the bodies that had been pulled from the water. The Emperor waited impatiently until he had finished.

  "What happened?"

  "Not a battle. Battering, but the river
could have done it. They drowned. The crest was man high down here—I saw it. Worse farther up."

  It was past dark when one of the survivors reached camp.

  "Half the legion, Majesty."

  "Sit down before you fall down—someone get him a chair. What happened?"

  "Nine, ten miles up river from the city. Narrow valley, wall across the choke point, archers on the wall, canyon spread out a bit lower down, not too steep. Commander put two hundred men on each side up above to make sure nobody ambushed us. I was on the right. The rest of the legion went up the valley to take the wall, tight formation, shields up."

  "The wall was the dam and they broke it."

  The man nodded.

  "Wave of water twice my height. We saved some, washed up one side or the other."

  "How many left alive?"

  "Four hundred of us out of it, Majesty. Junio thinks maybe fifty more, one side or the other."

  "Junio is the surviving captain?"

  "Senior captain left, Majesty. He sent me to tell you what happened. We took the dam, what's left of it, camped next to it, dug in. He wants orders."

  "Find a bed somewhere, get a good night's sleep. I'll send someone in the morning; you can show him the way."

  The Emperor looked around the tent. One of the officers spoke up:

  "Majesty, the last word from Justin got here five days back, left him six."

  "Have you sent to ask how he's doing?"

  "Three days ago, Majesty. They haven't come back."

  The Emperor closed his eyes, listened to the silence, opened them. Three days, and only getting worried now. Young men, mostly. If Artos ... That choice was made, too late to change it. Loyal to his prince—to the boy's credit. For a moment he could almost see Talinn sitting in his place in council, his lord's right hand, calm, quiet, solid as rock. Dead. Too many years. It was his war now. He pulled his mind back.

  "Fifth is camped farthest down the valley. Move the whole legion west. Assume the Karls have the camp. If we're wrong, the boys get some exercise. If right, have them build earthworks across the valley mouth, start siege operations against the camp, send word back for help. Claudio, you brought the bad news, you deal with it. As soon as you know, send word.

  "Karol. You have better forest scouts than theirs—use them. Your boys go west on both sides of the valley. Have them send back word about what's happening on the plain."

  Tent empty, he could stretch out on the cot, close his eyes, think. Justin was gone—he knew it in his bones. If all else failed he could cut his losses, abandon the siege, force the valley mouth, take the army home—with the Queen of Kaerlia in his train and the royal castle burning behind him. Nothing in the Kingdom, nothing in the Vales, could hold a field fortification against eight legions.

  * * *

  Two days later, the Emperor called his commanders to council.

  "We're lifting the siege, going home."

  He spoke into the silence:

  "Word came back from the encampment west—most of you have heard it by now. Fifth legion got there. The Karls pulled out when they saw us coming—left four hundred of our wounded behind.

  "Justin's alive. He took an arrow in the throat and isn't talking yet, so he used a stylus and tablet. Harald has the host of the Vales, half the Order, two or three thousand nomads, five thousand Karl heavies. They won two battles—seven days ago, the cavalry, next day, the legions.

  "Most of you saw the river—dry again. I figure the Karls had another dam farther upstream, closed it last night. There's a smaller river, Karls call it Red Rock, that joins this one five miles west of here. We just got word—it's dry too. The big river out in the plain runs north to the Borderflood. It's time to follow it. Empty the castle, add what supplies are left to ours, burn it, start west in the morning."

  "Majesty?"

  "Claudio?"

  "Eston river runs east and north, no telling how far. The small one comes down from the hills north of us. All we've seen there are a few archers, scouts. Why not push up Red Rock valley, stay out of the river bed this time, break the dam?"

  The Emperor thought a moment before he answered:

  "Someone in those hills has been trying to annoy us—nothing big, ambushes, throwing rocks down at the camp. Pin pricks. I've been wondering why.

  "Harald's had six days since the last battle. Cats are used to mountains, Karls know the paths—these are their hills.

  "Staying is too big a risk. We're low on food and water, no cavalry left to cover our supply lines, and Harald is out there somewhere with ten thousand men. He hasn't run out of tricks in twenty years.

  "Time to go home."

  The Way Home

  Some are valiant

  Though they stain no sword

  Standing at one side of the road, his squad at his back, it occurred to Garo that while guarding prisoners was less exciting than storming a castle, it had its compensations—especially when half of them were women. However strict the Old Man's orders, they couldn't stop a soldier from looking. Some were worth looking at.

  They came by single file, hands bound in front of them, roped together in groups of sixty, each separated by a squad of ten legionaries. One of the Ladies, tall, eyes alert in a scarred face, caught his eye. Fifty by the face, forty by the dark hair, thirty by the smooth stride.

  "Captain Garo."

  It was a legionary runner. Garo raised his hand.

  "Message from the Commander, sir. Karls coming up from the south—lots of them. He wants the prisoners off the road the other side, out of the way if there's a fight. Sent a guide—courtesy of His Majesty's pet Karl. Doesn't speak anything civilized, but he'll show you where to go."

  The young man gestured to the still younger man following him, pointed to the captain.

  "Captain Garo. Commands prisoners. Lead him."

  The guide looked at Garo, said something. Garo shook his head. The runner spoke again, slowly and loudly.

  "Show. Lead."

  The guide set off for the head of the column at a trot; Garo followed. Half a mile farther west, where the road ran over a dry river, the guide pointed right.

  Two hours later, the riverbed out of sight, the path winding uphill through thick forest. A figure stepped out of the woods, sword raised, struck twice. Leonora stepped clear of the cut rope, stretched out her bound hands; a third stroke and they were free. She turned to the Lady behind her.

  "Keep moving; guards suspect anything, they may start killing people. Move as slow as you can. Get a battle song going, loud—we need the noise. 'Laina, cut 'Thora free, give her your knife. 'Thora, free everyone ahead of you, swords for some of them pretty soon."

  Elaina obeyed orders, then turned to her mother. "Ambush ahead, two archers, far side of clearing to the right, any minute now."

  As she spoke, Elaina handed Leonora the sword she was carrying, drew her own. Her mother glanced down at the blade, up.

  "Good. Follow me."

  At the head of the column the guide said something to Garo, pointed. On the right the woods had fallen back, exposing a few small buildings and a stone wall.

  "What the ...!"

  At the legionary's shout, Garo turned back. The guide was gone. One of the guards pointed at the woods to the left.

  "Want me to go after him?"

  Garo shook his head, shrugged the shield down from his shoulder.

  "May be the least of our problems."

  Another shout.

  "Arrows. Ware arrows. On the right."

  Garo looked right as he slid his shield arm through the straps. Archers behind the wall. One of the legionaries behind him grunted. An arrow glanced off Garo's helmet.

  "Second half after them, first half watch the prisoners."

  His shield raised against the archers, Garo looked back along the path. The man at the head of the rope had seen the archers and stopped, more prisoners piling up behind him.

  "Form line; they may try something."

  Someone was p
ast the knot of prisoners, running straight at the guards—the tall Lady of indefinite age. This time she had a sword.

  * * *

  The nearest guard thrust at Leonora. She slapped the blade aside, twisted past to the left, struck back handed at the exposed neck. Three more in line, a fourth behind them, one down, more chasing after the archers. On her left forest; she circled right instead. The fourth man, the captain, said something to the other three and came after her, shield up—behind him his men were advancing on the prisoners. 'Laina's problem.