Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  “Deus?”

  He looked up, and in a moment his back straightened, the swords were returned to their sheaths, his eyes regained their sharpness.

  “Enali. You are too young. You should not see this.”

  “Too late,” she said. She wondered if he had meant she should not see the bloody carnage or the emptiness in his eyes. She would not have believed either if she had not seen them. But it was the latter that disturbed her more. It was as though a mirror had shattered and behind it there was nothing but darkness. It had cost Narak to do this – a price she could not even comprehend. For a moment she saw it – an endless, almost pointless existence punctuated by the necessity of violence and a heart that was not truly violent at all.

  She laid a hand on his bloody, torn sleeve. She did not know if she could help at all, but she wanted to. His eyes met hers. He smiled. A moment later they were surrounded by Degoran’s people, but for a second longer he looked at her.

  “Thank you,” he said, and walked away.

  *

  Narak stepped inside Pomeroy’s tent expecting privacy, but the tent was not empty. She was sitting in a chair, a glass of wine in one hand, her red hair loose for once, her green eyes angry.

  “Pascha.”

  “You have gone too far,” she said. “I felt this even at Col Boran.”

  “Well, that explains how the tent survived,” Narak said.

  “Be serious!” She stood up, and for a moment Narak thought she was going to slap his face, but her eyes softened and she put her hand against his cheek. “You know what this does to you,” she said. Narak shrugged.

  “It was necessary,” he replied. “They came to kill the king.”

  “And Degoran is worth this?”

  “It’s not just Degoran. It’s Cain, Sheyani, Bas Erinor and Avilian. If the knot is untied here the whole thing falls apart.”

  Pascha sat down again. She drank a little more of Pomeroy’s wine. “You always had a head for strategy, but wouldn’t it be simpler just to kill Alwain?”

  Narak laughed. For a moment it seemed that Pascha had said the funniest thing in the world, and he laughed with reckless abandon, but quickly controlled himself again when he saw her frown. Once he had it down to a mere smile he shook his head.

  “Once, perhaps. But lines have been drawn, and killing him would be the grossest interference I could have imagined. I really didn’t think you would countenance it.”

  “I don’t think I would have.”

  There was a slap on the tent.

  “Deus, is there anything you need?” It was Enali, by the voice.

  “Come in,” Narak said.

  Enali lifted the tent flap aside and stepped in, but stopped at once when she saw Pascha. Narak was not disappointed. She recognised the god-mage at once, but it could only have been by reputation and context. She bowed deeply.

  “Eran, forgive the intrusion.”

  Pascha’s reaction was quite different. She stared at the girl.

  “Perlaine? No, it can’t be. Who is she, Narak?”

  Again, the girl did not disappoint.

  “I am Enali Canterissa, Eran,” she said. How many girls of sixteen would have answered a question directed at Wolf Narak by the god-mage Pascha? Narak smiled. She did not even ask who Perlaine might be.

  “I would be grateful if you could take her back to Col Boran,” Narak said. That drew a glance from Enali, though Narak could not tell if it was shock or excitement and decided it must be a little of each. The girl didn’t speak.

  “Why?” Pascha said.

  “She needs to get used to a different kind of life. As you can see, she has the ring, but she is only sixteen.”

  Pascha took a step towards Enali. “Do you want to go to Col Boran?” she asked. “It’s quite boring at the moment – everyone seems to be in Avilian or Afael.”

  “Yes, Eran. I would like to see it.”

  “Let her use my library,” Narak said. “She has ambitions to be a scholar, and she certainly has the talent.”

  “Very well.”

  “Now?” Enali asked. “But my clothes – my family.”

  “They will be told,” Narak said.

  “And we will provide anything else you need,” Pascha said. She held out her hand to the girl and Enali took it hesitantly.

  “Come back and visit any time,” Narak said.

  Pascha shook her head. “You do enough damage on your own,” she said, and then was gone, Enali vanishing with her.

  Narak sighed and pulled off his destroyed shirt. He picked up a jug of water and poured it over his head. It felt wonderful, but he knew that the real stains he had acquired today would take more than water to remove. He reached for the fresh shirt.

  30 Leaving the Road

  In the end they didn’t have an hour. It was Amberline who noticed first. Sheyani was sitting with her on one of the wagons, piping the most buoyant marching tune she knew, embellishing it, and the Abadonist joining in. It was going well, but Amberline stopped and turned in her seat. The next thing Sheyani knew she was being pushed forwards, down among the barrels in the back of the wagon.

  An arrow thumped into the wood just above her head.

  “Riders,” Amberline said. “Behind us.”

  Sheyani shrugged free from Amberline’s grip and raised her head. She ducked down again as another flight of arrows hissed overhead and struck the wood. There were shouts now from Vandermay’s men, and arrows passed over in the other direction.

  She’d had time to estimate the enemy force and guessed at perhaps thirty riders, all of whom seemed to have bows. That meant it wasn’t an all-out attack – just a raid – but no less dangerous. The hooves sounded closer. They were going for the wagons, for the supplies. It made sense. If the enemy thought they were marching to Bas Erinor, and they could know nothing else, then destroying the supplies would prevent that.

  A rider came alongside the wagon. He had discarded his bow and now held a sword, but it seemed he was more surprised to see the Duranders than they were to see him. He swung at Sheyani, but she parried the blow easily and lunged at him, cutting him just below the shoulder. He shouted in surprise and fell.

  An arrow struck her in the arm and the pain made her drop her blade. She fell back into the wagon and tried to pull the shaft out, but, lying as she was, she couldn’t reach it.

  “Pull it out!”

  Amberline was staring, arms wrapped around her body. She looked terrified.

  Sheyani rolled onto her back and grabbed at the shaft. It felt like her arm was on fire but she ripped the thing loose and the pain fled at once. She scrambled across the wagon and picked up her blade again.

  The wagon appeared to stumble, tipping back and to the left. It bucked like an unbroken horse and slewed sideways, coming to a stop. Sheyani was thrown forwards and to the right, slamming against the side. She grabbed Amberline and lifted her bodily throwing her over the side towards Vandermay’s men. She intended to follow, but the sound of bowstrings made her duck again.

  A body tumbled over the side of the wagon, and she saw that it was Quinifa.

  “Are you hurt?” he demanded.

  “I’m Farheim, of course I’m not hurt,” she snapped. “Help Amberline.”

  “My men are helping her,” he said, staring at her torn and bloodied sleeve. “Are you sure…?”

  She pulled back the material, showing her unblemished flesh. “There. Satisfied?”

  “I apologise for doubting you, Lady Sheyani,” he said. He poked his head up and did not draw it back. “They are breaking off,” he said.

  Sheyani dragged herself to the side of the wagon and looked down. One of the wheels was shattered, and she doubted that they had time to repair it. She climbed over and found Amberline hiding beneath the good wheel. There were two Wolfen with her. The Abadonist still looked frightened.

  “They’ve gone,” Sheyani said. “The danger has passed – for now.”

  The rear of the column was quick
ly swarming with Vandermay’s men and the colonel himself was among them. He arrived just as the Wolfen were helping Amberline to her feet.

  “You’re unharmed,” he said. “Good. We need to talk.” He unfurled a map on the side of the damaged wagon and stabbed at a point on the road. “We are here. From what you said before we’ll leave the road here.” He stabbed again. “Up this valley. I need to know how far from the road this magic door of yours is.”

  Sheyani pointed to an unremarkable hillside on the map. “Here, but the terrain is rough. It will take a day, perhaps more, to get there, but there is a defensible campsite here.” She pointed again. “And that is half a day’s march from the door.”

  “Two days,” Vandermay mused. “That can be done. We will abandon the wagons, carry what we can, and your Wolfen can use their horse-poison to ward off any attacks.”

  That would work, Sheyani thought. A man could carry two day’s rations easily enough, although fighting while loaded like a packhorse might not be so easy.

  “Perhaps give half the men double the load, Colonel,” she said. “And they can switch around every time we stop – midday and nights.”

  Vandermay looked surprised, but nodded. “An excellent idea, my lady. We shall do just that.”

  The horses were freed from their harnesses and the column reformed. This time the Duranders and three of their Wolfen escort walked in the centre. Quinifa had stationed one of his men in the van and another in the rearguard in case of attack.

  There’s a skill to piping as you walk, especially if it’s a quick march and you’re shorter than most, but Sheyani managed it. They’d lost five men in the last raid – two of them carters – but it could have been a lot worse. She wove a positive emotion out of that, made it a victory, lifted the spirits of the men who marched around her once more. They were strong. They were invincible. That was what she played, and they believed it.

  Riders appeared on the hills to the east of the road again, but after a short while they vanished again, suddenly spurring ahead. Sheyani could already see the land dipping down to the point where they would leave the road, but there was a bend ahead, and she watched with apprehension to see what it would reveal.

  *

  Everything had gone well for Caster. They had quickly caught up with Lord Umber’s regiment, stripped it of cavalry and ridden on. The remainder of Umber’s had turned north again to meet Yurdal’s infantry on the road.

  Blackwood’s regiment had been seven hours ahead. They had been a little less willing to split their forces, but Caster had played on Cain’s authority and the king’s, and so the combined cavalry of three regiments rode away leaving Caster with Blackwood’s infantry.

  Caster was not a general. He was a sword master, but decades, even centuries, of discussing military campaigns with Narak had left him with a strong theoretical understanding of warfare. He decided to keep a score of horses with their riders to provide him with scouts. He could turn the horses free when they got to the gate and it would hardly diminish Cain’s resources.

  He worried about Sheyani.

  Cain’s wife was Farheim, just like Caster, and a powerful Halith Mage, but she was no warrior and they had seen evidence of cavalry other than their own on the journey south. He had considered sending a messenger back north with the news, but he would need to send fifty men to be sure of getting through and he wasn’t sure he could spare so many from Bas Erinor’s defence.

  He was beginning to regret that decision. Unsupported infantry was notoriously vulnerable to cavalry, and even a modest force could wreak havoc among foot soldiers if the infantry’s discipline was imperfect.

  He pressed Blackwood’s regiment forwards, and after a day they had caught Umber’s and combined their columns. He now commanded fifteen hundred foot soldiers and such a large number would be inclined to deter an attack, especially with scouts and sentries scattered about them. There would be no surprises.

  So it was all plain walking. The last night before they reached the point at which they would leave the king’s road Caster summoned the colonels and the chief of his cavalry scouts to his tent. Colonel Karran arrived first and thumped down in a chair next to a decanter of wine, helping himself. Caster liked Karran. He was the sort of plain soldier that Narak liked, and they shared a joke about his name being so similar to the Wolf’s, only reversed.

  “So what’s it this time,” Karran asked when he’d swallowed half a glass.

  “Best wait for the others,” Caster said.

  Karran drained his glass with another gulp and refilled it, settling back into his chair and stretching his feet out in front of him.

  “I miss my horse,” he said.

  “You’d marry the beast if you could.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Karran replied. “She’s a beauty and loyal as they come. Cheap to feed and clothe. Can’t cook worth a damn, though.”

  Captain Hale slapped the tent flap and came in. He half nodded, half bowed to Caster and stood the opposite side of the tent from Karran, half at attention, half not. Hale still hadn’t worked out Caster’s style and shied away from treating such a revered figure with the familiarity that Karran affected. Colonel Yelland was the last to arrive. He saluted, took a seat, and frowned at Karran.

  “We leave the road tomorrow,” Caster said.

  “At last,” Karran said.

  “We’ve seen no sign of the enemy, if enemy they are, since we started north, so I’m guessing they’re attacking Yurdal’s.”

  “You want to march north to meet them?” Yelland asked.

  “They should be close to the turn by now,” Caster said. “We’ll position ourselves there and wait, but I want to be careful. If they are going to hit us it will be tomorrow.”

  “We are careful,” Karran said. “I’ve never seen so many scouts out for so small a column.”

  Caster ignored him. They both knew that neither of them had been in a war and neither had marched in so large a force as this. He turned to Hale.

  “Captain, you will continue your good work tomorrow, but I want your men wider and further forward, especially to the west. You could hide an army in those low hills and if it’s there I want you to find it.”

  “I will, sir,” Hale almost saluted, but stopped himself.

  “And Karran, I want a tight marching order tomorrow. You’ll be in the van, and I want lances ready for any cavalry charge. You know the drill.”

  “I do,” Karran said, his tone questioning why Caster felt it necessary to tell him.

  “I’m to be rearguard?” Yelland asked. It was clear that he’d have preferred to be leading the column and first to engage the enemy, should it be necessary.

  “You are.”

  Yelland looked at Karran. Caster had become aware that there was a difference between the two men – that Karran’s relaxed style seemed un-soldierly to Yelland, and that Karran thought Yelland had a stiff neck.

  “Then you may be certain of the rear, my lord, if nothing else.”

  “We will break camp at dawn,” Caster said. “And now I am sure that you have arrangements to make, so I will not keep you, but Captain Hale will remain.”

  The colonels left, and Hale stood unmoving, blinking. Caster was sure that he would have been less afraid of a dozen mounted men.

  “Sit down, Hale,” he said. “We’re going to have dinner.”

  The captain sat down carefully. If it was possible to sit at attention, he was doing it. Caster poured a glass of wine and set it before the man.

  “Drink,” he said. Hale did as he was told. He was one of Yelland’s officers and used to a strict hierarchy. Caster was more familiar with Narak’s way of doing things. The Wolf had often told him that you got more out of people with a more paternalistic approach – be kind, be interested, get to know who they are.

  “You’ve done an exceptional job so far,” he told the captain. “Your men have been thorough and your reports exemplary, though thankfully rather dull.”

  “Than
k you, sir.”

  “You’re northern born?”

  “I am, though my great-grandfather served in the Seventh Friend under Cain Arbak. He was Bas Erinor born.”

  “A tradesman, then?”

  “A tanner. The family history says he knew Sara Henn before she was raised up, but it seems far-fetched.” Hale was almost apologising, and Caster felt the need to prod him again.

  “He survived the war?”

  “He did, sir. Made sergeant by the end.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “Well, he liked the life, so he found a job with Lord Umber and moved north. We’ve been soldiers ever since.”

  “He’d have been proud of you, then, making Captain.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir. He was at Fal Verdan and the White Road. He saw real battles.”

  “And so will you, Captain Hale.”

  Plates were brought in and set before them – good Avilian beef with long beans and mashed pumpkin brightened up with a thick cheese sauce. Caster cut a slice and chewed it.

  “About tomorrow,” he said. “Perhaps nothing will happen, but I want us to be ready if it does. You’re going to be out in front, and things could move quickly. If you see something, a chance to make a difference, take it. Don’t send a message back asking if you should do it. Just one saying what you’ve done. Understand?”

  Hale nodded, but Caster could see that he wasn’t sure about it. It was as though the man had never been given his head before.

  “Eat your food,” Caster said, and poured Hale another glass of wine. The captain obeyed.

  For Caster this was the difference between Yelland and Karran. The former was a fine soldier and understood his business, but he didn’t fully trust his officers. He liked to get reports, to make all the decisions. Karran was different. He might be a little sloppier in his drills, but his officers knew that he trusted them, and they knew what he was trying to achieve. That was why he had put Karran at the front of the column. His regiment would react more quickly, be more flexible in their response to an attack. He needed Hale to be the same, even though he was one of Yelland’s.