Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  “We’ll stay hidden, I think,” he said. “For a while, anyway.”

  Ingris pointed.

  “Sir, a rider.”

  Tamarak saw him almost at once, a lone figure riding from the north at a good pace. They watched as he crossed the camp and went in through the castle gates. That had to be a message. He’d gathered whispers as they’d travelled west, and the one thing he could say for certain was that Fetherhill was not alone. Great Howe had fallen and they were even marching on Red Hill.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back.”

  They scrambled down the backslope and wound their way through a series of wooded gullies until they came to the small wood where the men were camped. Dunst was waiting for them, perched on a rock with his home-made crutch beside him.

  “What news, Major?” he asked.

  “No change,” Tamarak said. “We wait.”

  “I’m fed up with waiting,” Dunst said. “We’ve been here for three days. Who’s going to care if a wounded soldier comes home. You should release those of us who can’t fight. We’re no use to you anyway.”

  “You know my reasons, Captain,” Tamarak said. “And until I give the word, you’re still part of this unit and still subject to discipline.”

  Dunst nodded. “I know,” he said. He eased down from the rock and leaned on his crutch. “You’re right, I suppose. You usually are, but there’s a lot of impatience in the camp. We’re here. We made it home and now we’re hiding.”

  Tamarak understood. Of course he did. There was nothing he’d rather do than disband what was left of the regiment and go home. It wasn’t the same for him, though. He had no wife and children. His home was a room in the castle barracks.

  “Supplies?” he asked.

  “Not much has changed since you asked me yesterday, Major. I’d guess we’ll last another six days, then we’ll have to find more food.”

  Tamarak wondered if they could move east again, just for a while. He was actually considering going back to Alwain. Those who couldn’t fight would have to stay, of course, but he guessed that even angry folk wouldn’t turn on their maimed neighbours.

  They walked slowly back to the centre of the camp. There was a fire here and food cooking. The smoke would be dispersed by the trees, and the smell – well, he couldn’t do anything about that, but with thousands of men a couple of miles away he guessed it would be lost on the wind.

  His men were waiting for him, waiting for him to give them the news they wanted. Tamarak shook his head.

  “Not yet,” he said. “But we’re going to have to organise foraging parties. We’ll look east for food. A day’s ride out should be sufficient.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to surrender, Major?” one of his men asked.”

  That was another option. Tamarak had been trying to avoid thinking about it, but there was a certain logic to it. The seriously injured would be free to return home, the rest of them would probably be fed – they might even be freed. There were so few of them.

  But the rules of war had changed. Fargas had done that when he’d attacked Wester Beck. He couldn’t be sure how his men would be treated. Add to that he didn’t know who commanded this new army and what kind of man he was, and the whole strategy looked doubtful.

  “We don’t know our enemy here, soldier,” he said. “Best we stay hidden ‘till we know more.”

  “We know these people well enough, Major,” another man said. “We could have cousins out there – even brothers.”

  “Who have risen up against our lord whom we swore to serve. We don’t know their commander or the sentiment of their men. Brothers and cousins notwithstanding, they might simply kill us all.”

  “I don’t believe that,” the first soldier said.

  “You’re free to believe what you like,” Tamarak said. “But you’ll obey my orders. We stay hidden.”

  The man looked back at him, contemplating defiance, perhaps, but he nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  With that capitulation he could feel the tension in the camp ease. They accepted his authority. It would be a day or two before the dissatisfaction brewed again, but it was getting harder to quell. This was the first time the common soldiers had questioned him. He leaned back against a tree.

  “Can I get a mug of tea?” he asked.

  Someone brought him a plate of food and someone else a mug of sweet tea. Ingris came over and sat beside him. They ate in silence. He was tired. He wasn’t sleeping well any more, not since he’d been put in charge of the wounded, and it was wearing him down. Part of him just wanted it to be over – the journey, the war, whatever.

  Someone touched him on his arm.

  “Major, someone’s coming.” The words, quietly spoken woke him completely from his reverie. He rose.

  “From what direction?”

  “East.”

  “How many?”

  “Just one.”

  Tamarak gestured and all but a dozen men pulled back into the trees, hidden to all but the sharpest eyes. The Major took a couple of steps down the path and leaned against a tree.

  The man that came up the path wasn’t young. He was thick set, clothed in simple cottons with a small pack slung over one shoulder. His arms were bare, and despite his close-cropped grey hair and weathered face he was the sort of man you’d stay away from in a tavern brawl. He paused for a moment when he saw Tamarak.

  “Good day to you,” he said.

  “And to you,” Tamarak replied. The stranger was unarmed unless there was a knife in that bag.

  “I see you’re camped here,” the man said.

  “We are that,” Tamarak agreed. He saw the stranger’s eyes pass over the tents and wagons, pause on the oxen.

  “Have any tea cooking?” he asked. “I’m a little dry.”

  “I think we can manage a cup,” Tamarak said.

  They walked together to the fire and joined his men. They were all still in uniform and the stranger could hardly miss that. Someone poured tea and the visitor sipped it and nodded appreciatively.

  “Good,” he said.

  “You’re not from these parts,” Tamarak said.

  “Berrit Bay,” the old man said. “Got business here, though.”

  “Oh?”

  The question was ignored. “You’re soldiers,” the old man said. “Fetherhill’s regiment by the tabards. Deserters?”

  “What’s it to you?” Tamarak replied.

  The old man shrugged. “Nothing, but these are dangerous parts for Alwain’s men these days. Ain’t you looked over that hill?”

  So the man knew about the army and he was headed that way. Tamarak decided he couldn’t afford to let him pass. If he told that army that some of Alwain’s men were hiding here…

  “I’ve looked,” he said.

  “So what are you boys doing here?”

  Well, that was a question he could answer.

  “Going home. These men were wounded at Golt,” he said.

  The old man raised an eyebrow. “You fought Narak? Can’t say that says much to your common sense.”

  “Soldiers obey orders,” Tamarak said.

  “Sometimes it would be better if they didn’t,” the old man said. “Ain’t you got a brain that works?” Tamarak bristled at the insult, but he pushed his anger back down. “Anyway,” the old man went on. “If you’re here to go home why are you hiding in this valley?”

  “Don’t know who’s in charge out there,” Tamarak said. “Don’t know what they’ll do to us.”

  “You’ll be fairly treated if you surrender,” the old man said. “If not, you’re goin’ to get killed. There’s only a hundred of you, give or take.”

  He wasn’t supposed to know that. How could he have seen the men hidden in the trees?

  “Who are you?” Tamarak asked.

  “Calpot, Bram Calpot,” the old man said. “But let me tell you a story. You’ve heard of Tilian Henn?”

  “The Ghost. Who hasn’t?” Tamarak could feel the tension ri
sing in him. He’d thought he was in control here. He had the men, but this old Berrit didn’t look worried.

  “My grandfather supped at the same table, and Cain Arbak was there, too, after the Bay was saved in the Great War. He always used to tell us stories when I was a boy, and I listened.”

  “So?”

  “When they made me Camp Master General, I looked for men like the ghosts – you know, hunters, foresters, quiet men who were good with a bow.”

  “Camp Master General?”

  “Aye, those men over the hill are mine, so are the four hundred in this valley.”

  Tamarak looked around, but of course he could see nothing. Even his own men were hidden. He licked his lips.

  “You’re bluffing,” he said.

  The old man smiled. “Jacko!” he shouted.

  An arrow sprouted from the ground about a foot from Calpot’s boot. The men around the fire reached for their weapons, but Tamarak stopped them with a raised hand.

  “You see?” Calpot said. “Now, are you goin’ to use that brain?” he sipped his tea and smacked his lips. “We spotted you two days ago. We’ve been waiting to see what you’d do. I got impatient.”

  “You want me to surrender?” Tamarak asked.

  Calpot shrugged. “It’s up to you, lad. You say no and there’s four hundred bows out there that’ll speak my answer. I’d rather not kill you all, but it’s your call.”

  Tamarak took a deep breath and deliberately sipped at his tea, which was cooling rapidly. He had no choice. He could gamble that there weren’t four hundred men with bows out there, but if he lost his men would die, and he didn’t think that Calpot was a gambler. He’d strolled into the camp knowing that he had a winning hand and he’d played it well.

  He drew his blade and offered the hilt to Calpot. “You win,” he said.

  “I think we all win, son,” Calpot said, accepting it.

  66 Old Friends

  Fane knew the floor would not be the same the other side of the door. It never had been, so he was surprised to find that it was. He stumbled. It was only a momentary thing, but his foot kicked a box and the box made a considerable noise.

  “Who’s there?”

  A guard, no, two guards appeared from behind a stack of crates. Fane looked around. He was in a dark room. There were no windows and the only light came from an oil lamp suspended from a hook on the wall. The guards had drawn their blades, probably seeing that his was out of its sheath. He smiled at them, lowered the point.

  “Am I in Bas Erinor?” he asked.

  The guards exchanged a glance. “Yes,” one of them said. “So you’d better give your name and your business.”

  Fane put his blade away. “Think about it,” he said. “I’ve just come through that door. What does that say about me?”

  One of them got it straight away. He lowered his sword. “Farheim,” he said. “But we still have to have your name.”

  “I give it freely,” Fane said. “I am Jerac Fane.”

  The quicker of the two guards saluted crisply. “You’re welcome, sir.”

  History. When you forget it sometimes people remind you. He still held the rank of lieutenant in the Second Seventh Friend. These men could well be from his old regiment.

  “Is General Arbak nearby? I need to speak with him.”

  “He’s on the walls, sir. The city is being attacked.” His tone said he’d rather be on the walls too, doing his share.

  “Thank you, soldier. Perhaps they could use another blade.” They stood aside as he passed. There were stairs at the other end of the cellar and he took them four at a time, bursting out into a deserted street. He stopped and listened. Even from here he could hear the sound of fighting. He ran towards it.

  The fight was well underway. Men swarmed on the walls above him, swords rose and fell. The din was familiar to Fane from dozens of battles. It didn’t seem to matter who they were – when men fought, they made the same noise. He heard steel on steel, the agonised cries of the wounded and dying men, the shouts of those trying to bolster their own courage, grunts, curses and the odd shouted command.

  The nearest stair leading up was only a few steps away and he ran up to join the fray.

  It was almost like coming home. He slotted in, hacking at the attackers, punching with his free hand. He picked up a shield and carved a bloody road along the wall, looking for the man in charge.

  There were some uniforms on the wall that he didn’t recognise, and almost killed the wrong men on two occasions, but he worked it out. The ones wearing mostly black must be the Wolfen. He’d heard rumours that they were here. They spoke – or shouted – with an accent that reminded him of the Seth Yarra homeland. In a fight like this the only way to judge a man friend or foe was his uniform, or the uniform of the man he was fighting.

  He came to a quiet section of the wall and found his man there. A major was issuing orders, pointing with a bloodied sword, his shield decorated with broken arrows.

  “Major,” he said. “Where’s the general?”

  “South wall,” the Major said. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Fane, General, People’s Army of Avilian,” Fane replied.

  “What?”

  “Later. Do you need help here?”

  The major shook his head. “They’re beaten, the pendulums made the difference.”

  Pendulums? Fane looked along the wall and saw a group of men push a heavy looking metal basket off the wall. He saw the rope wrapped around one of the merlons. Clever. That was typical Arbak. Changing the rules again.

  He went back along the parapet until he was clear of the fighting, then set out at a fast jog towards the south wall. It didn’t take him long to get there, but by the time he did the fighting was over. He could see the remnants of Alwain’s attack retreating towards a distant camp, followed by a few bitter arrows, and Arbak’s men standing around, slapping each other on the back, helping injured friends. Glad to be alive.

  He looked for an officer and saw a figure in full armour. He recognised the armour. It was Narak’s. But Narak was at Golt with the king. It certainly wasn’t Cain Arbak.

  “Caster?”

  The armoured man turned. It was really impossible to tell who was behind all that steel, but he stared at Fane and a moment later flipped his visor up.

  “Deadbox? Is that you?”

  They had a history, Caster and Fane. In the time Fane had spent at Wolfguard, a time that now seemed impossibly distant and happy, he had been taught to fight by Caster and Leras. His old nickname, from when he’d been a carpenter in Bas Erinor, had stuck to him. Caster had always called him Deadbox.

  “It is,” Fane said.

  The sword master pulled off his helmet and grinned. “You missed the fun,” he said.

  Fane wasn’t sure he’d characterise slaughter as fun, but he understood the rush, the thrill of fighting as a Farheim.

  “Will they come back?” Fane asked.

  Caster shrugged. “Ask Cain, he’ll know. I’m just here to kill folk and carry boxes. You came through the Farheim Gates?”

  “I did. There’s a gate at Great Howe. We took the place a week ago, but it wasn’t until today that I found the gate.”

  “Great Howe? That was you? And Fetherhill, too, I suppose.”

  “That was me. We have five thousand men… But where is Cain?”

  Caster pointed. Fane looked. Cain was on the tower behind him, watching the two of them. Fane raised his hand in greeting. “I must go and speak with him.”

  “Aye, you go,” Caster said. “See you in The Friend tonight?”

  “I have to go back.” But the lure of old times was strong. “Perhaps an ale or three, but I should be back in the west tonight. I left Red Hill surrounded.”

  Caster slapped him on the back, a blow that would have felled a lesser man. “See you there.”

  Fane hurried to the tower and climbed the stairs. Cain was waiting with his guards, a contingent of Wolfen and a vast crossbow.


  “Jerac,” Cain said. “It’s been a long time. I wondered if you’d come back.” They clasped hands in the warrior fashion. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “I came as soon as I heard. Landed at Berrit Bay a month ago, but there was an opportunity there, and I took it.”

  “So all that trouble in the west is you?”

  “I hoped to draw Alwain off, to give you help that way.”

  Cain handed him a note. “It seems you have succeeded,” he said. Fane read it. If this Fargas had told the truth it seemed that his plan had worked to perfection.

  “Will you follow him? If we can catch him between us…”

  “That was my thought,” Cain said. “We’ll have to plan it. You came through the Farheim Gate?”

  “From Great Howe.”

  “Tonight?”

  “The Friend,” Fane said. It was beginning to look like he’d need a room.

  “I’ll see you there. A few things to do here first.” He put a hand on Fane’s shoulder. “It’s good to have you back.”

  Fane nodded and left Cain to his work. He made his way towards The Seventh Friend along streets that were ghosts in his memory. He’d lived in the city for sixty years, give or take, and nearly every street, every building, every corner evoked a remembrance.

  He dawdled, reliving bits of his life, his other life when he had been Alos Stebbar, carpenter. He’d married. She’d died in childbirth and so had the child. He hadn’t married a second time in that first life, but his business had benefitted from that. He’d bought his own workshop, hired apprentices, lost one of them in the war. It was so fresh and yet distant, like it was another man’s memories, but that man was beside him now, sharing his eyes.

  He stopped outside The Seventh Friend. It was still an impressive inn, but time had chipped away at it. The sign was freshly painted, but the brickwork needed repointing and the door needed attention. He pushed it open and went inside.

  The public bar was quiet. A few older men were drinking at tables near the bar, but the atmosphere was tense. He walked to the bar itself and touched the smooth wood. He’d put this in a century ago, polished it with his own hands. It was worn now, but it was still the same thick, golden wood.