Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  “But that is cowardice,” Chillarin protested. “A king should be prepared to risk all for the good of his people.”

  “It is common sense,” Narak said. Why is it, he wondered, that these men with their brief candles of life were willing to throw them away? “But the decision is the King’s” And that was true. If Degoran decided to march, to follow Cain Arbak’s army marching west then he would go with them. He would fight at the king’s side, but he hoped it would not come to that.

  “Then I will tell the king,” Chillarin said.

  Perhaps it didn’t matter. Cain was already out of the city and Alwain had been heading west for three days. There was a good chance that even if they rode hard, they would not come up with the action until it was decided.

  “By all means, tell the king,” Narak said. “I will speak to him this evening. Tell him that, too.”

  The prince nodded. He seemed reluctant to leave, so Narak turned away from him and gazed out once again at the farmhouse and the lush fields of Southern Avilian. In truth he didn’t want to fight because he didn’t know what would happen if he did.

  Cowardice?

  Was it cowardly to fear what you yourself might do? What you could do?

  He heard Chillarin’s steps retreat down the stairs and closed his eyes against the light. He wanted to be with Pascha, but even more he wanted to be back in Wolfguard with his forest, his wolves, and with people who did not die.

  71 Going North

  Tamarak saw at once that the chaos had a purpose. Calpot’s army was preparing to march. He’d seen it a thousand times, but never on this scale. He had to admire the old Berrit. He had made these peasants into something resembling an army. There was discipline, and the commands filtering down made a kind of magical order from the confusion.

  His own men had been corralled in a couple of barracks buildings. The officers had been given rooms in the castle, each with four guards on the door and they were fed and allowed to do pretty much as they pleased, save leaving the fortress.

  Tamarak had taken his small escort up onto one of the towers to watch. He had no desire to escape, nowhere to go, nothing that needed to be done. Calpot had been true to his word. The men were being fed and the maimed had been freed to return home. He was allowed to visit the barracks and had done so three times in two days. Doubtless his conversations were reported back to the Camp Master General, but he could hardly object to that.

  The most difficult moment had been his visit to Lord Fetherhill. The old man had been imprisoned at the top of the keep, but as far as Tamarak could see he was being treated well enough. His family was there, too, and all of them seemed well fed and clothed.

  Fetherhill rose when he saw the major come through the door.

  “Major Tamarak.” He saw the guards follow him in. “You too, eh?”

  “I was detailed to bring the injured home, My Lord,” he said.

  “How many?”

  “About forty who won’t fight again, My Lord, but a hundred men who will.”

  Fetherhill shook his head. “And the rest?”

  It was obvious that Fetherhill didn’t know, or at least didn’t believe what had happened at Golt.

  “Alwain sent us against Wolf Narak, My Lord. We lost a thousand men at Golt. Fargas took what was left against Wester Beck.”

  “They told me about Wester Beck, Major, but I didn’t believe it. True, eh? But you were against it.”

  “I thought it ill advised, My Lord.”

  “So Fargas sent you away.”

  Tamarak nodded. He didn’t want to make a point here. Fargas had been the senior man. It had been his right. But there was something else he wanted to say.

  “My Lord, may I speak freely?”

  “Of course, Major.”

  He took a deep breath. “Alwain was a fool to send us against Narak, My Lord. It was futile. His desire to kill the king overrode all common sense.”

  Fetherhill raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, inviting Tamarak to continue.

  “We could still salvage something from this, My Lord. I have seen this army and I cannot believe that Cain Arbak will not pursue Alwain. Alwain will be trapped and outnumbered. He cannot win.”

  “You think we should switch sides?”

  “My Lord, more than half of these men outside the walls are Fetherhill men. They are the cousins of our own soldiers, the uncles and nephews. If we stay loyal to Alwain we will lose everything, and Alwain has shown that he does not deserve your loyalty.”

  Fetherhill frowned. “Alwain has been a good friend to me, Major,” he said. “You want me to throw in my lot with this rabble? Betray a friend?”

  “You need only declare for the king, My Lord. Support Cain Arbak as Duke of Bas Erinor.” Privately Tamarak doubted that Alwain would have hesitated to betray Fetherhill had the situation been reversed. He had not seen a good side to the man’s character.

  “They will not trust me, or you.”

  “We will make them trust us, My Lord.”

  Fetherhill turned away and walked to the window. Tamarak knew that from here he could see Calpot’s army assembling on the trampled plains. It was an impressive sight. More men joined every day. Even green men, in such numbers, represented an unstoppable force, and thousands more were further north at Great Howe and Red Hill.

  “I will have to think about it, Major.”

  “Then think quickly, My Lord. They are preparing to leave, and they will take you with them. I know the men will follow where you lead.”

  Fetherhill shook his head and sighed. “Your logic is inescapable, Major. As always. Had I replaced Pomeroy with you I would probably still have a regiment instead of a hundred men.”

  That was not true. Tamarak would have had no choice but to obey Alwain. He would not have volunteered quite so keenly for the Golt attack, and he would not have gone to Wester Beck, but he could not say what might or might not have been.

  Tamarak waited. His lord continued to gaze out of the window for some time.

  “What do you make of this Calpot fellow?” he asked eventually.

  “Clever, and so far, he seems to be a man of his word,” Tamarak said.

  “So far,” Fetherhill said. “But it’s Jerac Fane we have to worry about.”

  “Jerac Fane, My Lord?” Tamarak hadn’t heard the name.

  “Calpot is his proxy here. Fane is the general – a Farheim. He took this castle almost single handed.”

  A Farheim? Tamarak had studied them, of course. Every officer worth his salt had, but Fane? Yes. Now he recalled. Fane had been the least of them. He’d fought on the walls at Bas Erinor, then, after the peace, he’d vanished and never been heard of again. What was he doing here? Where had he been?

  “How does Fane seem to you, My Lord?”

  “He seems to know his business, both with a blade and as a commander. I suppose he’s a better man than most of us would be if we had his power. He seemed chivalrous, almost kind when the fighting was done.”

  “Then perhaps we can trust him, too,” Tamarak said. “But the decision is yours, My Lord.”

  Fetherhill turned, his demeanour changed, became more positive. “So it is, Major. Or should it be colonel? Why not. For what it’s worth I hereby appoint you Colonel of Fetherhill’s regiment. You will inform Calpot that we have decided to throw our lot in with our people and the King. We support Cain Arbak and acknowledge him as Duke of Bas Erinor.”

  “You’re sure about this, My Lord?”

  “Now you question your own advice, Colonel?”

  “Not at all, My Lord, but I am curious, if you permit it.”

  Fetherhill nodded. He sat and poured two cups of wine, pushing one towards Tamarak, who sat and took an obligatory sip.

  “It’s simple enough,” Fetherhill said. “We were attacked – I mean my family and I. We are alive because of Col Boran. The sort of attack it was, only Col Boran could have protected us. Col Boran is linked to the Wolf and the Wolf to the king. You sway my natural
inclination in this, Colonel.”

  “I would like to hear more of this, My Lord.”

  Fetherhill waved a dismissal. “Later, Colonel. I’m sure we will have time on the road. Convey this to Calpot.”

  Tamarak sipped his wine again and stood. “At once, My Lord.”

  Outside the door he turned to his escort. The man in charge was a sergeant, though what he had been a fortnight before was anybody’s guess. Tamarak had judged him a sensible, cautious man, which is why he had the stripes on his arm.

  “I need to see Campmaster General Calpot,” he said.

  “He’s busy,” the sergeant said.

  “I have no doubt of that, but he will want to hear what I have to say.”

  The sergeant scratched his head. “Aye, maybe he will.”

  He led the way down from the heights of the keep to the crowded bailey. Calpot was there, standing by the gate, surrounded by officers and runners. He saw Tamarak coming and stepped away from his men to greet him.

  “Major, you are here on some purpose?”

  “I am, General. Lord Fetherhill has declared for the king. He supports Cain Arbak as Duke of Bas Erinor.”

  “That’s handy for him,” Calpot said. “Given that he’s a prisoner.”

  “He is sensible of his debt to Col Boran, General.”

  Calpot seemed to think about this for a while. The officers waited in the background. The business of packing up an army continued around them.

  “Tell you what,” Calpot said. “I’ll let you choose.”

  “Choose, General?”

  “Aye, why not? You can choose to stay here. Your lord comes with me, but you and your hundred men can stay here in Fetherhill Castle and wait for Alwain – I give it to you. Or you can come with us. I need men to train soldiers and your lot will do just fine.”

  A trick? A trap? Tamarak didn’t think so. Calpot wasn’t that kind of man. Tamarak took this as a genuine offer, but it didn’t matter.

  “I’ll make you an offer in return,” he said. “My Lord has promoted me. I’m colonel of his regiment now and it seems I have vacancies – about nineteen hundred. Give me men – Fetherhill men – and I’ll give you a regiment.”

  Bram Calpot grinned at him. “You tie yourself to a boat you want to make sure it’s not going to sink.”

  “If it’s your own boat does it matter?”

  Calpot grinned again. “Damn it, Colonel Tamarak, I could get to like you. North it is, then. I’ll pass the word that any Fetherhill man who wants to fight for the king can join you. Get your men out of barracks and ready to march in two hours.”

  “In two hours, yes general.” He saluted. It felt odd saluting Calpot. The man didn’t look like a soldier, but in a way it felt good – like he was finally on the right side of this.

  73 Waterhill

  It was a deliberate choice to march past Waterhill. Cain had abandoned it for the safety of Bas Erinor when he had accepted the dukedom. Now he took the road home with some trepidation. He did not expect that Alwain would have treated the place well.

  When they came to the gates, he told Caster to take the army ahead and rode to his home with a small escort of twenty men. He remembered the road, and how he’d seen it the first time, riding with Sheyani then, as he was now, and a fresh minted Lord of Avilian. That had been mere days before he had asked her to be his wife.

  The trees that sheltered the house were taller, but the lake and the grass seemed unchanged. He rounded the last copse of trees slightly ahead of the others and reined in his mount.

  There it was, still standing. It was not the prettiest building in Avilian, a jumble of styles, parts of different stone, roofs at odd angles, but he loved its ugly face. It was home.

  Sheyani reined in beside him.

  “At least he didn’t burn it,” Cain said.

  “Why would he do that?” Sheyani asked. Cain shrugged. He’d expected some kind of petulant destruction, and they’d yet to see inside, to know that their people were all well.

  Spans rode alongside. “We go first,” he said.

  Cain shook his head. If there was anything wrong then a Farheim was best equipped to deal with it.

  “No,” he said. “Wait here. Be ready to come if I call.”

  He rode forward alone, cutting across the front of the house, his eyes searching the windows for any sign of movement. There should be people here to greet them. His steward knew him by sight, even from a distance. So did most of his workers.

  The house remained quiet, so Cain turned his horse and approached the west side. There was a vegetable garden here and a door that led into the kitchens.

  He looked up, but saw no smoke. He drew a blade as he approached the door. It was closed, but when he lifted the latch and pushed it with a foot it swung open.

  “Merit?” He called into the quiet house. There was no reply. “Merit? Are you there?”

  He listened, head bent, eyes half closed, waiting for the quietest murmur from within.

  Nothing.

  He stepped through the door and immediately to one side. It was a habit. A man in a bright doorway made an easy target.

  The kitchen was empty. He crossed the room and crouched down by the ashes of the fire. They were cold.

  He looked into the pantry, but it had been stripped bare, an empty flour barrel lay on its side in the corner. There was broken glass on the floor.

  Cain left the kitchen. He walked up a short flight of stairs and entered the dining hall. Here, too, the house looked abandoned. The table was dusty – something Merit would never have permitted – and a chair lay on its back. The other furniture was untidy, the chairs pulled out and gathered into groups like people at a party. Beyond the table the door to the main hallway stood open.

  Cain crossed the room and peered around the edge of the door. The main stairway dominated the space, rising from a few paces inside the main door and splitting at the back wall into left and right flights. It was dim here. The shutters had been closed across the great window at the top of the first flight.

  Why? There had been no storm and Cain had always been happy for them to remain open, day and night. Perhaps the darkness served another purpose.

  He listened again. His Farheim senses were sharper than a man’s and after a while he became convinced that he was not alone. It wasn’t anything he heard, but the smell. He could smell another presence in the hallway. But where? And why? It could be one of his own household, or it could be a man lying in wait.

  Best to assume the worst.

  He moved out of the dining room, slipping his sword back into its sheath. He drew a smaller blade. He paused again. There was really nowhere to hide on this floor. A table stood either side of the door, and perhaps a man could be concealed on the other side of the room by the bulk of the staircase, but that would be a poor hiding place. You’d be as blind as the person you were waiting for, and he had no doubt that if someone was waiting, they were waiting for him. There’d be little point in leaving an assassin behind to kill a common soldier.

  Cain took a deep breath and ran for the stairs.

  He was quick, of course. Even so the arrow plucked at the chain mail on his back and span away into the dark. But the arrow pointed both ways, and Cain saw the man, a shadow crouched behind the balusters to his left. He turned and threw his knife, not slowing until he reached the top of the stairs and turned, drawing his sword once more.

  The archer had vanished.

  Cain advanced along the landing to where the man had been and found his bow. There was blood on the ground. Cain could smell it. There was a trail leading along the floor, a gleam of wetness in the dim light. He followed it.

  The archer was in a room at the end of the corridor. He’d got the window open and was trying to climb out, but the window was narrow and the man was hampered by his injury. Cain stepped quickly across the room and grabbed his foot, pulling him back inside.

  The assassin slashed at him with a knife, but Cain avoided it easily an
d disarmed his attacker, catching his wrist and forcing the knife from his fingers. He picked the man up and pushed his back against the window.

  “Just how stupid is Alwain?” he asked the man. “Sending a bowman against a Farheim?”

  The man didn’t answer, and struggled weakly. Cain could see the knife he’d thrown had pierced the man’s belly. It looked nasty. He dropped the man and unstrapped the water flask from his waist.

  “Just carrying out orders, eh?” he said. “Here.” He handed the flask to the man who took a sip.

  “The arrows,” the man said. “Poisoned.”

  “Poisoned? Still no use against a Farheim, and Alwain should know that.”

  The wounded man shrugged, coughed, and took another swallow of water. With that wound he would probably die.

  Cain leaned out of the window. He could see Sheyani and their escort still waiting by the copse of trees. He raised an arm and beckoned them to come.

  An arrow slammed into the wood by his face. He jerked his head back inside instinctively, but he hadn’t seen that coming. He stayed a pace back from the window and looked anxiously at Sheyani and the escort. They were riding hard to the left now, trying to put the house between themselves and the attack. Cain could see men coming up from the right, about fifty of them – all on foot and most of them with bows. A couple of Cain’s escort had already fallen.

  He ran back to the stairs and snatched up the archer’s bow. Back in the room again he took the man’s arrows.

  “Poisoned, eh?” he said. “Let’s see them do their work, then.”

  He nocked an arrow and knelt before the windows, took aim and let fly. Cain had practiced a lot over the years. He’d come to enjoy the bow as a weapon and now he was better than competent.

  A man fell. He nocked another arrow, shot a second time. Another man fell. They’d seen him shooting now and a few arrows came back, two of them passing through the window and striking the wall behind.

  His third arrow winged a man but, if they were poisoned, he was done for. He could see that they were heading for the main entrance, so he left the wounded archer and went to meet them. He took the bow and one arrow and made his way down the great stair, positioning himself ten feet from the entrance.