by David Waine
Before he could do that, however, he had a sacred duty to perform. A squad of engineers had cleared a nearby knoll of snow at the very apex of the pass. Here they reverently laid Vlaan’s body and piled more stones on top until he was buried beneath a massive cairn. Simian drove the point of the late General’s sword into the peak and topped it with his empty helmet. “That will have to do for now,” he said sadly, “we will complete the memorial upon final victory.”
They had travelled for less than three minutes when he held up his hand to halt the column. Before him lay the broken body of an old soldier dressed in the tattered remains of a Draal general’s uniform. He had not been killed by the avalanche. His clothes were ripped and filthy, his face bruised and swollen. He had been trampled by his troops as they fled in panic. Like the old soldier he was, he had stood his ground and tried to rally them.
“Goodnight, Siriak. Stopped at the pass again.”
As they passed, the snow walls collapsed behind them, sealing up the defile after they had passed through. Simian reined in and listened.
“What was that?” he asked the nearest officer. “There,” hearing the sound again. “Can you hear a woman laughing far off?”
“Oh, that!” replied the officer. “That will be the Hag.”
*
Black as the knell of midnight he came. A black rider on a black horse, gleaming sword brandished aloft. The attacking Draal scouting party paused to marvel at this newcomer. The first two immediately lost their heads. Weapons were raised but more bodies fell as he turned, reared and rained doom upon them again. Heartened by the arrival of their unexpected ally, the Nassinor guards rallied and struck back at the stunned Draals. Moments later, the remnants of the scouting party were in full flight.
The rider trotted up to the carriage, dismounted and opened the door. Count Dorcan Vorst lay lifeless on the floor, surrounded by four weeping serving women, two of them holding babies. Avalind stepped out, blinking in the broadening sunlight, to stand face to face with her sable saviour.
“Your Highness,” he said with a smart bow, “you are unhurt?”
“I am, sir,” she replied solemnly. “We meet again, mysterious man in black.” She gestured within to the scene inside the carriage. “As you see, we have suffered grievous loss.”
The man in black gazed at the fallen nobleman. “Would that I was here earlier. The Kingdom has need of such men.” Turning his attention elsewhere, he scanned the horizon before he spoke again. “That was a scouting party. There is a massive Draal army not two leagues to the east.”
“We were trying to skirt round it to Nassinor,” she replied,
“You will not make it along these lanes. Your only chance is to leave your transports and travel cross-country,” answered the man. “They will return in force before long and there is no way that this small party could survive a second attack. I must ask you to come with me, Your Highness.”
“You will lead us to safety?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, My Lady, I will take you. These serving ladies and guards must split up and use the horses or their feet. Together they will be identified and run down. Individually, they have a chance of slipping through to Nassinor.”
She faced him squarely. “You would save me, sir?”
“I would save you, Your Highness,” he replied, “because you would do as much for me. Take my hand.”
“No.”
The man stared back in silence.
“Look around you,” she said calmly, indicating the guards and her ladies. “Some have already given their lives to protect me. Would you have me desert them and leave them to their fate?”
He entreated, “That is noble, Your Highness, but to lose you would be a blow so grievous that I fear the Kingdom would never recover. You have a wider responsibility than those in this party. Think of your people.”
“I am thinking of my people,” she answered. “These are my people. If I desert one, I desert them all…”
She said no more. A moment later she lay senseless at his feet. Mussa stood over her, baby balanced on her hip with one hand, a smashed wine bottle in the other. She dropped the bottle in the sodden grass.
“Forgive me, ma’am,” she wept. “You saved me when others would have turned me out. I won’t let you sacrifice yourself now.” Turning to the man, she continued urgently. “Take her, sir, and save her.”
Needing no prompting, he reached down to pick up the unconscious princess.
Mussa slipped the richly embroidered, but rather thin, cloak from Avalind’s shoulders and replaced it with her thick woollen one. “That’ll keep the cold off her better.”
She held Avalind while he remounted, and steadied her until he could lift her across his saddle. He did not see her slip the Seal of the Vandamms from the princess’s finger and palm it. He gave her an empathetic grin.
“Good luck, brave one,” he smiled.
“Take my baby, sir,” she demanded. “He’s so little, he won’t weigh nothin’. The princess will look after him — when she wakes up. Please, sir. Save my baby.”
Her lip quivered; there were tears in her eyes. Seeing her thus, he could not deny her and the absolute sacrifice she was prepared to make. He took the child.
“What is your name?”
“Mussa, sir. His name is Callin.”
Realisation dawned. “Named after his father,” a glance back at the coach brought a new thought to him, “Count Vorst, though he knows it not.” He exhaled sharply. “Fare you well, Mussa. If God wills it, I will reunite this child with his mother.”
Spurring his steed, he rode off bearing his two burdens, directly away from the direction that any new Draal insurgents would appear. Mussa watched him go with tears streaming down her face.
“Mussa!” Angma’s voice was incredulous. “You stole her ring!”
*
All day they sailed in strict formation, a rigid two cables apart, the support vessels and remaining three hulks following in their wake. Killian had wisely reserved three fire ships in case anything went wrong. He did not want to be isolated and unprotected off the northern coast of Draal. All eyes were craned forward to catch a glimpse of the squadron they pursued. If they could catch them and destroy them before they linked up with the main Draal fleet, there was still a chance of saving their own squadrons and preventing the seaborne invasion. To that end, each forward ballista was kept armed and primed.
The ballista was the navy’s prime weapon: a huge crossbow, mounted on a swivel, which could fire flaming bolts over considerable distances. Each warship carried four: one facing fore, one aft and one each side. Between them, using their swivels, they could cover a complete field surrounding the ship. In theory a ship turned athwart to its foe could turn three ballistae on them at once as the fore and aft devices could be swivelled to support the facing weapon. Traditional Kingdom strategy discouraged this, however, as it laid the ship vulnerable to the enemy’s main support weapon: the ram. The preferred tactic was to concentrate fire on an enemy by coordinating the actions of three or four ships simultaneously.
The wind held fair but it was that very wind that drove the enemy in the same direction. Killian played every trick that he knew, trimming sails, sailing dangerously close to headlands, anything to gain a little time on his adversaries. Lunch and supper were served but few had the stomach for it.
He insisted, however. “We will have to fight a battle tonight or tomorrow. We will not fight it with empty stomachs!”
His crews complied sullenly, but they did comply.
“Fire! Fire! Dead ahead!”
Killian and his captains craned their eyes forward in the gathering gloom. It was unmistakable. An orange glare flooded the southern horizon.
*
Callin craned his eyes eastwards. The news from the pass had arrived hours since. Joy at the victory had been tempered by the grievous news of General Vlaan. Of Coreth and Keriak, of Avalind, of Soth and of Killian, of course, they had no new
s. No news was possible.
Rhomic was at his side, also scanning the eastward horizon in the gathering gloom.
“At least we won one victory,” breathed Callin.
“We did,” confirmed Rhomic. “To win the war, though, we will require much, much more. If Sulinan really has marched a large army right into our territory, that triumph will count as nothing.”
“I see we have a second dawn, My Liege,” greeted General Treasor as he joined them on the battlements. The clouds over the eastern horizon were reflecting a dull red glow from beneath.
Rhomic nodded, his face hard as he stared closely at the horizon. His mouth set into a straight, grim slit. “At least we now know from which direction they will come. See, Sir Callin. Sulinan’s army. That is the reflected light of many fires.”
Treasor’s face was also grim. “They are burning everything that they pass: farms, villages. Your realm is in flames.”
*
Kubelik climaxed over the screaming girl, then casually rammed his dagger into her throat to silence her noise. Kicking the body to one side, he watched it being dragged outside, to increase the gathering pile, while he calmly poured himself another goblet of wine and wiped the blade on his breeches.
General Trulik sat in the corner of the tent, arms folded. “How many more?” he asked. “Do you intend to ravish every woman in the Sutherland before we claim our right?”
Kubelik took a long, slow draught. “I am preparing myself for Avalind,” he replied, smacking his lips.
Trulik laughed mirthlessly. “You will have no manhood left by the time that we find her.”
Kubelik lifted the flagon to his lips and allowed the wine to cascade out over his stained uniform. “No chance of that.”
Trulik got to his feet and snatched the flagon from the young prince, snatching a quick quaff himself in the process. “Remember that we are here to reclaim the birthright of The Light of Heaven — your father! Every moment that you waste here plays into Rhomic’s hands.”
Kubelik’s face was reddening from wine. “So?” he slurred. “We have an army of eighty thousand men on Sutherland soil. By now Siriak will be over the pass and harrying Brond, Grelk will have overrun Graan and cut off Killian’s fleet, which should have been destroyed by Flenn anyway. We have them. Enjoy our victory in anticipation, Trulik.”
Trulik snorted. “I will enjoy our victory when it is won, Your Highness. Until then there is no victory.”
Before Kubelik could respond, a guard appeared at the door, saluted and handed a note to the general. He read it, and then passed it to the prince.
“The remnants of a scouting party have just returned. They ran down a coach in the open some two hours east of here. A royal coach, carrying women. They killed their commander and some guards, but were surprised by a mighty warrior, all in black, who appeared from nowhere.”
“A mighty warrior!” laughed Kubelik.
Trulik folded his arms. “Exaggeration or not,” he said, “they were beaten off by this man and the remaining guards.” He paused for a moment, recollecting. “My money would be on Avalind being in that coach. Rhomic would have sent her to Nassinor for safety.”
The news suddenly sobered Kubelik. “You see the wisdom of waiting, General Trulik?” he leered. “Do as you wish with the others, but I want Avalind alive!”
*
A slow dawn revealed burning ships, but they were not all Kingdom vessels. Killian’s rear admiral, Corulak, was giving as good as he got and his on-board ballistae had already reduced two of the approaching Draal warships to flaming hulks, adrift and perilous to their comrades. It seemed that battle had been engaged shortly before nightfall. The ensuing darkness had forced both fleets to stand apart for fear of destroying their own ships. Corulak had made good use of the pause to marshal his forces and do some damage to Flenn’s. His stock of missiles would not last forever, though, and he had to make each shot count. Now that the sun was returning, however, battle had been rejoined in earnest.
Whereas the Draal fleet, overconfident in its numerical superiority, tended to fire their ballistae at random, resulting in many wasted shots, Corulak targeted the nearest ships according to Kingdom tradition, sending volleys from three or four of his vessels at once, to much greater effect.
Draal was taking its toll, however. All of Corulak’s ships had been hit, although none fatally. His only chance lay in edging closer to the shore, where the batteries in Graan could support them. So far, he still had sea in which to manoeuvre as he edged closer to the harbour wall. A blazing hulk collided with its neighbouring vessel and set it ablaze, to resultant cheers from his own crews.
“On deck there! Enemy fleet reduced to thirty-one sail!”
“Acknowledge!” roared Corulak. Thirty-one undamaged ships versus fifteen, all damaged. The odds were still overwhelming. Where was Killian?
Killian was closer than either Corulak or Flenn knew. It was not until his rearmost ship went up in flames that the Draal realised he was being engaged from astern. Killian had concentrated the fire of all four of his ships on a single target, in true Kingdom fashion. Cheering broke out in the beleaguered fleet. The odds were now thirty to nineteen.
“Six rearmost ships put about!” roared Flenn. “Deal with them!”
For several minutes, confusion reigned. Having been taken by surprise and the lack of clarity in Flenn’s command, no fewer than ten ships began to turn in no particular pattern. Two turned straight into each other, fouling their rigging, while a third managed to turn straight into the blazing rearmost ship and set itself on fire.
The chaos in the Draal line gave Corulak the opportunity he so desperately craved. Giving the order to concentrate all available fire on the fouled ships, he watched the massed volley strike home and then turned smartly for Graan, pulling the free Draal ships after him.
Hit by twelve blazing bolts, the two fouled ships were quickly engulfed in a ball of flame that reached far above their mastheads. Both crews abandoned them, hurling themselves into the water, now burnished by the flames and the rising sun.
Corulak did not get away unscathed. One of his own ships was now in flames and sinking, while a second had lost two of its masts and had bare steerage way. Still he held on for Graan, pulling the bulk of Flenn’s fleet after him and leaving their now reformed rearguard to Killian.
Aboard the flagship all was disciplined determination. The four prime ships of Killian’s squadron were spaced out at rigid two-cable lengths to prevent flames from any one of them spreading to the others, while still allowing them to concentrate their fire on a single enemy vessel.
Behind them, Kupornik, commanding his support ship and the hulks, kept his eyes rigidly astern, scanning the horizon for any further danger. The confusion in the Draal rearguard seemed now to be sorted out and their ships were lining up smartly. Fortunately most of their fire was still going astray, but each volley was striking closer and his squadron was beginning to sustain damage and casualties that they could ill afford.
Turning to give the defensive order, he saw that it was already being carried out. Sails, bulkheads, oil tank covers were all being thoroughly soused with seawater to delay their combustion, if hit. Turning back, calculating range, wind and trim of sails constantly in his head, he saw that the leading four enemy ships were converging slowly to concentrate their fire on him. He snapped out the order.
“Massed fire on lead vessel, all available ships.”
The two volleys went off almost simultaneously, a shower of rocket-like missiles soaring from the respective squadrons. Two opposing bolts met, by sheer fluke, in mid air and burst in an incandescent ball of flame between the opposing vessels. Being necessarily hurried, the Kingdom volley was the less accurate of the two and did little damage. Unlike the Draal squadron, however, his Kingdom crews set about reloading their ballistae immediately, while their enemies waited to see what damage they had caused before recommencing their task. The result was that they fired off a second volley lo
ng before Flenn was ready and did much greater damage, checking the Draal advance. Even so, Killian had not escaped unhurt. His foretopmast was down, killing two crewmen in its fall, and there was a steady trickle of wounded seamen being ferried below. He was also aware that too many bodies were being pitched overboard.
“Signal from support vessel, sir!”
Killian craned his eyes aft. It was the signal he dreaded.
‘Enemy fleet in sight astern!’
*
The tantalising aroma of roasting meat filled the tent. The pile of corpses, all young, female and personally raped by Kubelik, was being disposed of before they began to give off a different odour. Kubelik’s tent flaps were pegged open so that he could watch the burning and drink. Trulik had his back to the spectacle and was poring over maps, plotting the attack on Brond.
“Still on with your maps, Trulik?” slurred the prince. “When will you begin to enjoy our victory?”
“When we have achieved it,” came the terse reply.
“We have achieved it,” insisted Kubelik.
The general turned to face his theoretical commander. “Have we, My Prince? Have you received information that has been withheld from me? If so, you can plot the remainder of the campaign and I will go home.”
Kubelik held up his hand for peace. “As you will, General,” he smirked. “Plot away and miss the joy of war, if that is what you wish.”
Trulik faced him squarely. “Your Highness,” he said severely, “I am a veteran of ten campaigns. I won my commission in battle and I carry the scars to prove it to this day. I know war. I know its joys and its miseries. This is your first campaign. A great education awaits you and Rhomic is a fine teacher.”
Kubelik’s lips curled in a snarl. “You speak thus to the greatest graduate that the School of Death has ever produced? Was your own record there so impressive, General?”
Trulik replied, undeterred, “Speak to me again after your first battle. We are the conquerors, but they are fighting for their very existence and they will make us pay with blood every step of the way.”
