by David Waine
“Snow sheds,” confirmed the king. “To keep it open in winter. That would boost trade, of course.”
“And facilitate the movement of an army,” put in General Treasor. “If he can establish that bridgehead, the road to Brond would be open and he could set his engineers to improve it sufficiently for the bulk of his forces to come over while we are bogged down in our strongholds. Imagine the strength of his position if he had a hundred thousand men around Brond when the spring came.”
“How many men would Sulinan require to overthrow our garrison?”
“Not less than fifty thousand.”
“And to neutralise the Border Force?”
“At least thirty,” replied General Vlaan.
“Therefore,” mused Rhomic, he will need huge numbers. We know he has them.”
Dumarrick spoke up once more. “Over fifty thousand to invade. He has ten thousand encamped opposite Graan. They would be deployed to prevent Coreth from breaking out to harass his rear.”
Baron Coreth nodded his agreement. “That leaves many troops unaccounted for. I am curious to know what he has in mind for them.”
“I may be able to help there,” put in Admiral Killian. “We have had reports that he is building ships in Gulal.”
“Warships?” asked the king.
“A few, but primarily flat-bottomed barges, each capable of transporting large amounts of legitimate merchandise or several hundred troops.”
“How many barges would they need to transport ten thousand men?”
“Twenty.”
“If they put their full naval strength against you, what chance would they have of getting through?”
“None, without a severe mauling, sire.”
Rhomic nodded grimly. “So, let us assume that you reduce their power by, say, half. They could still land a substantial force on Dragotar.”
“And that would prevent me from supporting Brond,” said Baron Dumarrick, “Nassinor’s forces could still be brought into play, but God knows how long it would take them to get here on winter roads.”
“So that is it,” reflected Rhomic in the stunned silence. “The pincer. By the time Vorst’s forces arrived, Brond would probably have fallen. We are looking at the destruction of all we cherish, gentlemen.”
Heads were bowed, contemplating their collective fate. None more so than Baron Coreth, Admiral Killian and Keriak Rulik, who could expect only the utmost savagery as the Draals would regard them as turncoats.
“However,” he said in a more cheerful tone of voice, “the example is the worst case we can imagine. This morning’s task is to envisage how can we thwart him?”
“We could treat him to such a show of strength when he visits that he thinks again,” suggested Soth.
“He will be expecting that,” countered Rhomic. “Besides, he has a fairly clear idea of our armed strength already, as we have of his. We have already examined our strengths. What of our weaknesses?”
“The main one is that there simply aren’t enough of us,” said Baron Dumarrick.
His comment ignited a small flame of inspiration within Callin’s breast. “If I may, Your Majesty?”
“Sir Callin?”
“If Sulinan’s plan is as we have supposed, it is fraught with pitfalls. How do we know that we cannot stop his forces from crossing the mountains? Could we not launch a pre-emptive strike to make their passage more difficult?”
“If I may?” it was the first time Simian had spoken.
“Sir Simian?”
“My suggestion is we use our mountain skills to bring some avalanches down on them.”
“I like the sound of that,” approved General Vlaan, “at the very least, it should block the pass for months.”
“During which Kubelik would be stranded on this side of the mountains with only the forces that came with him,” continued Simian. “He would have no choice but to link up with the other bridgehead in Dragotar.”
“I will prevent that from being established,” put in the Admiral.
“How?” asked the king.
“We will attack them before they sail. Send the fire ships into Gulal harbour while they are being loaded with troops and equipment to cause the maximum disruption.”
Soth now spoke. “If we mounted a diversion, they might not notice you sailing on Gulal until it is too late.”
With gathering enthusiasm, Rhomic continued the thread. “Excellent. Soth, you will go on a diplomatic mission to Dragotar, taking a squadron with you. Make a big show of it. You can return overland.”
“I foresee a problem,” put in Baron Coreth.
“Go on, Baron Coreth.”
“If Sulinan suspects that we are planning a naval campaign, he may not content himself with placing Graan under siege, but attempt to overrun the city, thus cutting off the fleet’s supply line and only refuge at a stroke.”
Rhomic left his chair and paced about, clenching and unclenching his fists. Eventually he came to a halt in front of the fire, rested his massive palms on the mantelpiece and spoke with his back to the assembly. “How many reservists can you call up without alarming your neighbours?”
“Perhaps two thousand — and we can train as many more secretly, and will. There are plenty of large caves in the cliffs near the city where we can do that.”
The king now turned his attention to the sailor.
“Admiral Killian, if your plan succeeds, the Draal armada will be neutralised by a handful of vessels?”
Admiral Killian nodded. “If not, we will need every vessel we have just to reduce their chances of landing on Dragotar.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Rhomic, “that is a chance we must take. On the commencement of hostilities, you will divert the inshore squadron to support the city.”
“That would leave a hole in our sea defence should their barges escape in any numbers.”
The king pursed his lips, breathed deeply for a few moments, and then returned to his place at the table.
“Noted,” he said, “but if we do not do that, Graan will probably fall and Sulinan could afford to sit back and watch the fleet starve on the high seas. At the very least, he could still reclaim Graan, and that would be a major prize.”
The king smiled grimly and thumped the table. “I am content, gentlemen. As his plan depends on surprise — and, in that, he has failed already — ours depends on his assumption that we have not surmised his intent and covered our weaknesses. Soth must be returned by the time Sulinan arrives. Our own internal communications must be improved or our deliberations here today could count for nothing. The forces of Yelkin and Nassinor must be able to move quickly, if required. However, we must not alert the Draals to that fact. Certainly the road to the pass must remain as it is.”
“There’s no need to upgrade the entire road system, My Liege,” put in Baron Dumarrick, “merely the most impassable bits. Bridge the fords, drain and fill the muddiest bits. That sort of thing. It could easily be disguised as necessary improvements in the interests of trade.”
The king rose. “An excellent morning’s work. Refreshments are called. We will break now and then reconvene this afternoon to work on the detail.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The letter left for Nassinor in the hand of Tetcher. In it Callin recorded the glad news, but omitted any mention of the war council, Rhomic having sworn all present to secrecy.
The window was closed, for the night outside was cold, but the room was warm with its fire glowing in the grate, its flickering giving even the stilted fresco some semblance of life.
The bed was warmest of all, with its two occupants writhing slowly and rhythmically. Mussa’s eyes were open, but blank, as her head shot back, her mouth gasping. Callin’s eyes were closed, although he knew it not. His mouth was pulled tight in a strained grimace of determination as he fought to delay the conflagration for one further ecstatic second. A moment, a blinding moment of pure, brilliant emptiness, on the verge of an all-consuming immolation. Then the flames
belched forth, locking them both rigid, lost in a flood that swept away all senses.
A cry escaped her throat, a grunt his, and her lips crushed his passionately. As her climax slowly eased its grip on her loins, so her mouth gradually reduced the pressure of her kiss until it was soft and warm and overflowing with her love for him.
Their joy receding, she settled at his side, cradled in the crook of his arm. There they remained, kissing softly and stroking one another’s flanks.
Mussa’s eyes flickered open. The fire had sunk lower, although its glow still warmed the room. She wondered if the time had come to tell him. Almost at once her courage failed her. What if he rejected her? Sooner or later, though, she would have to face up to it. Sooner or later she would have no choice.
“I love you, Master Callin,” it came out almost as a whisper.
His exploration stopped and he lay very still. Her heart began to thump at her ribs. She could not even hope that he would reply that he loved her, although she knew in her heart that he did — in his way. She opened her mouth to tell him, yet the words would not come.
He noticed the change in her and sat up. “What is it?”
She sat up beside him, pulling her knees up to her chin. She seemed very sweet and appealing, crouched beside him. Then he saw the tears coursing down her face and realisation dawned
A cracked sob left her throat, and finally she found her voice. “I got something to tell you, Master Callin.”
He knew. “You are…?”
She nodded. “I’m carrying your child.”
He stared at her, unable to determine how he should feel. He had spawned life in another human being. He was to be a father. Soon there would be an illegitimate infant to excite gossip and point fingers.
Her hand descended softly on his arm. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind?” He didn’t know whether he did or not. “How long?”
She did a few simple calculations on her fingers. “Well, I missed three times on the run, so I reckon early summer. Round about the time of the hunt, and your dubbing.”
The irony of the situation suddenly burst upon him and he laughed out loud. To be elevated to the knighthood and learn he was to be a father on the same day could only be surpassed by being dubbed and actually becoming a father on the same day. His laughter broke the tension.
“You don’t mind?” she asked, hope welling in her heart.
He laughed, “Will it be a boy or a girl?”
She snuggled happily in beside him. “We won’t know that until it arrives. I hope it’s a boy, though, so I can call him Callin.”
Mussa was appealing, she was gentle, she was fun and the softness of her body, pressed against his, had deepened many a sleep. More than any of that, she loved him. Her love was not the negotiated agreement of aristocracy. It was simple and absolute. The daughters of nobility were bred to duty and tradition. Being low born, for all its disadvantages of poverty and servility, had its compensations.
If it was a boy, he could enrol him in the academy. That would enable him to claim retrospective nobility for her, of course, although she would be well into middle age by then and her chances of landing some blue-blooded beau would be correspondingly reduced.
Let her hope. He was genuinely touched by her devotion and wondered if he would be able to keep her as a mistress after he was married to someone else. Realistically, that was the best she could hope for and they both knew it.
“He or she will be the child of a true-hearted and loving mother and a knight. If a boy, he will be enrolled in the academy; if a girl, she will go to the ladies’ seminary. Either way, our child will have a future — and you will not be forgotten either, Mussa.”
The girl’s heart now burst with joy. She was giving her love, the greatest gift she could bestow, and he had not rejected her for it. Her dreams were coming true. Was there room in the heavens for the dearest dream of all?
*
The next few months passed in a whirl for Callin. First there were the joyous replies from his father and brother, acknowledging his elevation. He had his own title at last. He was a Sir! No more would he have to depend on pocket money from his father.
Not that Count Amerish had ever been remotely stingy in that matter; his reply came with a very substantial purse indeed that Callin was to spend on two suits of armour, a robust one for action and a gorgeous one for formal wear. Avalind’s reply was equally pleased and complimentary. She even added coyly a little concern that her protector would no longer be available to look after her now. His reply assured her that he was still at her disposal whenever possible.
Even Lissian was cordial. He noticed, with surprise, that she had lost a good deal of weight. It was only then that he realised that he had hardly seen her recently. Since the commencement of her still secret training programme with Master Gallen she had kept herself to herself, eaten in her room and applied herself to her lessons in the seminary. She was no beauty, would never be a Mussa, let alone an Avalind, but at least she was beginning to realise her potential as a woman. Keriak and Simian were similarly relieved to have graduated and the three of them spent much of their spare time together, looking forward to the General Dubbing.
Rhomic kept them busy, commissioning them to travel throughout the Kingdom to check on road building. All fords were to be bridged with temporary wooden structures, and all muddy spots were to be properly drained and filled with stone. The pass road, of course, remained unaltered — officially because it was not such a bad road anyway and lay low on the list of priorities, but in reality so as not to do any of Sulinan’s engineers’ work for them.
Callin’s tour of duty included a trip to Nassinor. He was genuinely gratified to see the improvement in his father’s condition. Still old and undeniably frail, but visibly better than he had been in January.
“You have worked wonders on him,” he told Avalind at the first opportunity.
She smiled with a slight blush. “Thank you, sir, but I think your elevation did more. All he can talk about is the dubbing. He would be a bore if it wasn’t so good to see him revived.”
All this he reported dutifully on his return to Brond.
Winter had long given way to spring and summer was in the offing when Keriak returned from Graan with news that the garrison was up to scratch, but that the matching garrison on the other side of the river had been increased considerably. When Baron Coreth enquired as to the reason for this with his opposite number, General Grelk, he was told that Draal’s troops were all undergoing major exercises that year, ‘for purely defensive purposes.’
That spring, for all its threat of imminent war, was a happy time for Callin, his only cause of frustration being the increasing girth of Mussa’s belly. Soon everyone knew what her condition was and who had caused it, yet none said a word to him — or her — about it. The girl, herself, seemed blissfully happy and could frequently be found patting the growing mound in sweet contentment. Her developing motherhood, however, was also marked by a diminution in her appetite for couplings. She would never dare deny him, but he became aware of her growing concern for the unborn child and her natural desire to protect it. More and more nights were passed simply lying side by side, sharing each other’s companionship rather than their bodies. Sometimes she would ask him to place his hand on the mound and feel the movement within. The sensation of his child’s sprouting limbs responding to his touch produced an undeniable sense of wonder in him, but it was no substitute.
*
The war room of Sulinan’s palace in Zinal was a gloomy place. A high arched ceiling vanished into shadows, sporadically lit by guttering torches. Like its counterpart in Brond, it was also hung with the banners of every family in the land, only many more were tattered and spattered with long dried blood. While the Kingdom had enjoyed two decades of peace, its neighbour, Draal, had expanded its borders northwards with successful, if costly, campaigns against the border tribes. A large fire crackled at one end of the room within it
s ornately carved hearth: a noble relief depicting mass executions, and hung about with many decorative skulls. Further skulls could be seen through the window against the darkening sky, these ones still attached, approximately, to the impaled bodies of their owners, miscreants who had caused either Sulinan’s or Kubelik’s displeasure.
These two now sat, side by side, at the head of the table. Sulinan was a wiry old man with sparse hair and a drooping white moustache, his face deeply lined and furrowed, each one the memory of some barbaric act that he had particularly enjoyed. Kubelik, bore little physical resemblance, being a hulking young man with a heavy head of black hair that fell freely to his powerful shoulders. He, too, wore a drooping moustache and around his neck was a necklace of a hundred teeth: the right canine of every opponent he had killed in the Draal School of Death prior to graduating earlier that month. Every commander of the armed forces sat before them.
At present, however, the focus of their attention was the naked slave girl gyrating slowly on the table in their midst, to the mournful cadences of a single flute. The unabashed lust in their eyes was counterpointed by the barely controlled terror in hers. She tried to convey an unfelt impression of arousal, writhing, arching her back, and lifting her rump to give these men an uninterrupted view of her most intimate areas. Her body glistened with sweat from head to toe, mostly from her fear. She knew, only too well, that she was dancing for her life. If she failed to please them, she would be dead by morning, torn apart after being raped by each one present. If, on the other hand, she pleased them, she would be put to work as a rutting wench. Her tongue would be cut out as a matter of course, but at least she would live.
Old rutting wenches did not exist of course. As their looks faded, so did their chances of continued survival and those who were past their best were increasingly prepared to sink to any depravity to stay alive. Such a fate awaited her, but her single consolation was that the worst of it may yet be years away. She had fine features and a trim figure, and much could happen in a few years.
