Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  He felt like an idiot. Tamarak fancied himself a fine soldier, a good commander, but he’d never had this problem before. All the books he’d read, all the strategies he’d learned seemed inadequate, and that gave him a greater respect for Cain Arbak, the man who’d created The Seventh Friend out of Bas Erinor’s gutter trash.

  Arbak had the luxury of time, he told himself, but it felt like a lie. He put his head in his hands, closed his eyes and tried to picture the places he’d seen, and with a column marching through. He imagined an attack, a small force, perhaps fifty men riding hard. They’d have to come from nearby, with as little warning as possible.

  Alwain would march about ten abreast. If Tamarak went for the infantry they could punch through, but he’d lose men. Not so many if they were distracted somehow, if they were looking the other way.

  How to do that?

  And then the picture in his head clicked into place. He tested it. What would Alwain’s men do? There’d be no time to wait for orders from Alwain himself. The duke would be hundreds of yards away. There would be pursuit, caution, a reordering, a need to defend the column.

  Yes, it might just work. But he needed to see the place again.

  “Colonel? Not giving in to despair, are you?”

  He looked up. It was Fetherhill with a young woman he didn’t know. Someone important by the way Fetherhill was fawning. Tamarak stood and saluted.

  “My Lord. My Lady.” He didn’t bother to answer the spurious question, but he was curious. He hadn’t seen this woman in the camp before and she dressed like nobility.

  “Colonel Tamarak, this is Eran Callista of Col Boran,” Fetherhill said, almost as though he’d read Tamarak’s mind.

  Tamarak bowed. “An honour, Eran.” But what was she doing here?

  “I have a question for you, Colonel,” Callista said. He heard the accent at once. She was Afaeli.

  “I would be pleased to answer, if I can.”

  She turned to Fetherhill. “You will excuse us, My Lord?”

  He was somewhat taken aback, but nodded and wandered a discreet distance from where Tamarak stood. Tamarak, too, was surprised. He had no idea why a god-mage would want to speak to him.

  Callista smiled at him. “He is a well-mannered man,” she said. “But quite dull. His principle reason for changing sides seems to be that you told him to.”

  “I suppose he values my advice, Eran,” Tamarak said.

  She nodded. “I suppose he does, but what interests me is why you gave that advice.”

  Tamarak shrugged. “Many reasons?”

  “Name a few.”

  “Nobody wants to be on the losing side in a war, Eran. We had an opportunity to choose the winning side and took it.”

  “And?”

  Tamarak looked at her. He was used to dealing with privileged people. Fetherhill was like this sometimes, but he had the feeling that this woman couldn’t be manipulated as easily. Besides that, she was a god-mage.

  “You want me to say something noble, like it was the right side, the right thing to do?”

  “I want the truth, Colonel.”

  “It’s a difficult thing, the truth. Sometimes it changes even as you tell it. Sometimes even the truth can be a lie.” She continued to look at him, waiting. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll be as honest as I know how if you’ll do something for me.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Something?”

  “You’re Afaeli, you can read Afalel, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I have something in Afalel and I’d like to know what it says. And I’d like you not to tell anyone else.”

  “That’s it? That’s all? You lack ambition, Colonel.”

  “I only ask for something I need, something you might be willing to give.”

  “Very well. Be honest and I’ll translate for you.”

  Tamarak took a swallow of water from his waterskin and offered it to Callista. She shook her head.

  “Honest,” he said. “It’s a story. We fought against Narak at Golt, and apart from the damned foolishness of it I was all right with that. It wasn’t wrong. Then Fargas wanted to attack Wester Beck. That was wrong, but I objected and was given charge of the wounded. I brought them home, only to find that Fetherhill had been seized by its own people. Eran, these people are our kin. Now we were on the opposite side to our uncles, cousins, mothers and brothers. Nothing has ever been so wrong. But I was sworn to do my lord’s bidding. Should I break an oath or rebel against nature? I found a way to do neither.”

  “That sounds like justification, Colonel.”

  “It’s how I felt,” Tamarak said. “It’s what I did. The words, perhaps, came later.”

  She looked at him in silence for a while, then nodded. “I’d like to see you tell that tale before a dragon, Colonel, but I’ll accept your truth. Thank you. Now, what’s this paper you want read?”

  Tamarak pulled it from his sleeve, crumpled, fading, and unfolded it carefully. Callista took it, looked at it, and laughed a hearty belly laugh.

  “This?” she said, waving the paper. It began to fall apart.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “This, my dear colonel, is the testament of Johan Paritti.” She held out her free hand and a sheet of paper appeared in it. She offered it to Tamarak. “Here, a translation. Every beggar in Afael City has a copy. It’s a political tract, the very political tract that ignited the populist war. Where did you get it?”

  “One of my men,” Tamarak said.

  “And he could read it?”

  “Apparently so.”

  Callista frowned, but shook her head. “It’s not something that concerns Col Boran, but if this has spread among your men, Colonel, your path ahead may be more troubled than you can imagine. Good luck to you.”

  With that she turned and waved to Lord Fetherhill who hurried over. “Now,” Callista said. “You were going to show me the north side?”

  And that was it. The god-mage walked away with Lord Fetherhill, exchanging banal pleasantries. He watched her go. He’d heard of Paritti. The man was infamous, even if dead. When Fetherhill had passed from sight down the path into Raven Down he took out Callista’s translation and read it. It took less than a minute to read the whole thing, but when he’d finished, he knew that the god-mage had been right. It was dangerous, even more so because it sounded fair, and just, and perfectly workable.

  78 Fetherhill

  To Colonel Haliman it seemed as though they had arrived at a party only to find it over and all the celebrants returned home. They had not chosen a cautious approach. Alwain had been against it. He had wanted to intimidate his enemy with the size of his army, hoping they would run or surrender at once before the sight of it, but Fetherhill was empty.

  Haliman paused on a high point about a mile from the castle and looked down. He had not expected this. Fetherhill was a stronghold, so why abandon it? It was obvious that an army had been camped outside the walls, or, if not an army, then a very large number of people. Thousands.

  He needed to know what had happened here.

  A cavalry unit was passing below him and Haliman called out to their captain, who rode up to join him on the ridge.

  “Sir?”

  “Go ahead of the column, Captain,” he said. “The gates stand open, so have a look inside. If you find anyone, capture them. Don’t kill them if you can avoid it. Scour the surrounding area until you do find someone. I want information. Go.”

  The captain saluted and rode back down to his unit. Haliman watched them break away and ride hard towards the castle. He would have to explain himself to Alwain, he supposed, but that didn’t worry him. The Duke needed him. Alwain was bold to the point of recklessness, but responded to Haliman’s natural caution.

  He left the ridge and rode down to re-join the column, easing his way past the regiments of foot soldiers towards the van.

  By the time he reached the front a halt had been called and men were spreading out to find pitches for the
ir tents. By the look of it they were simply replacing what had been removed a few days previously. There were burn scars from fires, flattened areas where tents had been erected, trampled pathways. It had been a well organised camp, by the look of it.

  The cavalry unit he’d sent to investigate the castle and its surrounds were mostly still out looking, but he could see some of them up on the outer walls. Clearly there was no trap. The castle was genuinely deserted.

  “You see something?”

  It was Alwain. He reined in his mount next to Haliman.

  “No,” Haliman replied. “But they were here just a few days ago.”

  “I’m not blind,” Alwain said. “Why the men? What are you looking for?”

  “Witnesses. Intelligence, My Lord. There will be plenty of folk around who saw them here. We should find out what they saw, hear the rumours.” He looked across the field. “They went north, it seems.”

  “Great Howe and Red Hill are both easier to defend,” Alwain said. “We’ll find them there.”

  “This many, My Lord?”

  “They can’t all have been soldiers, Colonel. Most of them probably dispersed back to their farms and villages.”

  Haliman didn’t think so, but he didn’t argue. He’d need better evidence before he tried to convince Alwain otherwise, but the idea they’d gone to Great Howe made sense. If they created a defensive position, they could use the great fortress to anchor their line.

  Alwain stood in his saddle and rubbed at his back. “I’ll be glad of a soft seat and a cup of wine tonight,” he said. “Riding all day’s not the light work it used to be.”

  That was a complaint. Haliman had argued that they should ride hard, and all day. He thought a more leisurely pace would give their quarry more time to escape, or to prepare a defence. Preventing either would be a good thing. But the escape, if it was an escape, had been accomplished. At least Alwain wasn’t shouting at him.

  “My Lord, with your permission I’ll see what our scouts have found.”

  “I doubt they’ve found anything,” Alwain said. “But by all means…”

  Haliman rode off, weaving his way through the burgeoning camp site towards the castle gates. It would be cramped quarters for the men here, but he’d rather keep them together than split over two camps. He reached the gates and found the captain he’d sent here standing in the middle of the Bailey.

  “Captain?”

  “Empty, sir, everything. The stores, the armoury, everything.”

  Haliman dismounted and handed his horse to a waiting soldier.

  “People?”

  “All gone. There’s just stone and wood, sir. Even the hay for the horses has been carried off. But there’s something you need to see, sir.”

  “Show me.”

  The captain led him up a flight of stairs onto the fighting platform and round the walls. With the keep firmly between them and his men the captain stopped and pointed.

  Haliman looked.

  Beyond the wall there was evidence of another camp, and this one stretched half a mile across open fields. He could see the black scars of recent fires, the flattened grass, the worn stains of busy tracks running to and fro, just like the other side. But how many had camped here? It had to be many thousands.

  For the first time Haliman felt doubt. How could there have been so many here? A rough guess put this mass of people a shade larger than Alwain’s army.

  It could be a trick. Even if it wasn’t a trick these men couldn’t possibly be a match for his own trained men. They had to be peasants, townsmen, unskilled in war. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease.

  “Captain? Colonel?”

  They both turned and looked. Some of the men had brought someone into the bailey, a man struggling to shrug off their hands and stand on his crutches.

  “Who have you got there?” the captain called down.

  The one-legged man tripped one of his escorts with a crutch and elbowed the other aside.

  “Captain Dunst,” the man called up. “Fetherhill’s regiment, retired,” the last word said with noticeable bitterness. “I must speak with you, Colonel Haliman.”

  This was what he needed, a military man who’d seen what had passed here.

  “Have some respect, lads,” he called down to the soldiers. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Captain.” He hurried to the nearest stair and descended, crossing the bailey with a measured tread that concealed his eagerness. He eyed the soldier. There was no hint in the man’s clothing that he was an officer. He was dressed like any peasant, but the face was familiar, even if a little unshaven, the hair unkempt.

  “I remember you,” he said.

  Dunst nodded. “You’ll want to know their strength and such,” he said. “I can tell you that and more, but I want something for it.”

  Haliman could sense desperation. The man had nothing. Losing his leg had made him the lowest of the low. He’d lost his job, his salary, his cause. He wouldn’t even be any use working in the fields.

  “I can give you money,” Haliman said. “Or I can give you a job. I’ve got soldiers driving wagons that would be better employed elsewhere.”

  Dunst nodded. “That’ll do,” he said. “Anything to get away from my sister’s place.”

  “So how many men do they have?”

  “Many. I asked around. General Fane went north with two thousand to take Great Howe. He took the same men to Red Hill. There were ten thousand camped here after that, give or take, and maybe fifteen hundred out that side,” he pointed towards the gate. “They were the new recruits.”

  Thirteen thousand? “And they were all soldiers?” Haliman asked.

  Dunst shrugged. “More or less. Fane took the best with him, but the others were training every day. Mostly spears and bows.”

  “And this General Fane?”

  “Didn’t meet him,” Dunst said. “But they say he’s Farheim.”

  “Farheim?”

  Doubt stood up again in his mind and pressed forwards. Farheim? But all the Farheim were Col Boran, and Col Boran was playing no part in this war – except for Narak, and Cain Arbak was Narak’s, too, and Caster, who’d been on the walls of Bas Erinor. That was a funny kind of neutral.

  “I thought I knew them all,” Dunst was saying. “But I’ve never heard of Jerac Fane. Perhaps it’s just a story they tell.”

  But Haliman had heard of him. He was the missing one, the one that had vanished after the Great War. They’d assumed he was dead somehow. Maybe he was dead and this man had just stolen his name and reputation.

  “He attacked Fetherhill?”

  “Well, I wasn’t here,” Dunst said. “And not many defenders survived the attack, but I spoke to one, and he said that Fane came in pretending to be a carpenter – pretty good at it, too, by all accounts.”

  “But he was there? He fought in the attack?”

  “So they said. Took the gate on his own and opened it for his men, then fought his way into the keep and got to the top in time to save Fetherhill and his family.”

  “He saved them?”

  “Killed one of his own men. Had that from someone who saw it. Maybe that’s why Fetherhill switched sides.”

  Haliman was damned if he was going to ask another fool question, but he almost did anyway. Switched sides? Lord Fetherhill had deserted Alwain? It wasn’t as though he had a regiment to back him. They’d been cut to pieces at Golt and all but wiped out on the walls of Bas Erinor. But it was a blow. It meant that Fetherhill thought Alwain was going to lose.

  “Did Major Fargas get back to you at Bas Erinor?” Dunst asked.

  “He did,” Haliman confirmed. “He went in with the last attack but never came back. He was a brave man,” and a fool, he added silently.

  Dunst sighed. “So many men gone,” he said. “But not Tamarak.”

  “Major Tamarak?” Haliman knew the major, a good soldier.

  “Colonel now, and rebuilding the regiment for Fane.”

  The bad news seemed endl
ess. Tamarak was young but clever. If Tamarak had been given Pomeroy’s seat the course of the war could have been quite different.

  “The leg,” Haliman asked. “You lost it at Golt?”

  “The Wolf took it.” Dunst looked at the sky and shook his head. “That was a damned fool fight. Narak’s not a man, Colonel. If ever you find yourself facing him throw your sword away and run.”

  Well, if Alwain wanted news, here it was. Haliman could get Dunst to deliver the bad tidings himself.

  “We’ll hear your tale in full this evening, Captain.” He turned to the men who’d brought Dunst in. “Get him a bath and a shave and put him in a decent uniform,” he told them. “And feed him. I’ll see you this evening, Captain.”

  He saluted the man, a gesture of respect, and left him with the other soldiers. They would treat him well enough now they knew he was a soldier and the colonel’s guest. He had no idea how Alwain would treat him, though.

  *

  It was around sunset they sat down to their evening meal in Alwain’s opulent tent. These campaigning feasts had always made Haliman a little uncomfortable. A soldier servant stood behind every chair and others bustled around bringing food, filling cups. How could he expect anything they discussed to remain a secret? Their every conversation was a subject of rampant camp gossip.

  He took his seat at the end of the table and talked idly with the man next to him. Alwain didn’t have enough seats for all the regimental majors, so he rotated them through. All the colonels were here, of course.

  Tonight there was a special guest, the one-legged Captain Dunst. Haliman had to admit that they’d done a good job sprucing him up. He looked like a soldier again, even though they’d put him in the uniform of Alwain’s regiment. They’d even found rank insignia.

  Dunst sipped nervously at his wine and chewed a bit of dry bread. Haliman wondered if the man had worked out that he was plainly in the first rank of this particular attack.

  Alwain seemed in good spirits, but that could change as quickly as a summer storm, and often did. It took the Duke a while to get round to Dunst, and Haliman counted the cups of wine he drank. That had become a habit over the years. Alwain became more forgiving after two, but more prone to irrational anger if he passed five. He’d sunk three by the time he turned to the crippled captain.