by Tim Stead
“As much as I’d like to, Colonel, the King himself told me not to engage the enemy.”
“I don’t think you have a choice, My Lord, and better to engage them at a time and place of your choosing than with your fleeing arse.”
Redcliffe grinned. “Well spoken,” he said. “But you’re sure he’ll catch us?”
“We killed quite a few of them, My Lord. They’re motivated enough.”
“So do you have a place in mind?”
“Well,” Tamarak pretended to muse. “We were heading for Littlebridge to pick up some men on foot, but that’s hardly a stronghold. What about Great Howe?”
“Strong enough, I’ll grant you, but if we get bottled up in there, we’ll have a job getting out again.”
“I don’t agree, My Lord. My men all have bows. If they attack just once, and I think they will, we’ll thin them out enough that we can ride through them.”
“It’s a gamble. If they stand back and wait for us it’ll be a straight fight on open ground.”
“And we’ll be rested, My Lord. Better odds than we have now.”
“Can’t fault your thinking, Colonel.” Redcliffe grinned. “I like it. To be honest I didn’t fancy spending the war carrying messages to and fro. We’ll make for Great Howe. What’s the condition of the place?”
“Sound, My Lord, but stripped of supplies. The gates will still close and the walls are not breached. It can be held for as long as we have food. We should send a rider to Fane so he knows our circumstance.”
“Send five. Your hounds won’t follow them if four hundred ride to Great Howe.”
“Your men are fresher, My Lord. And they can carry the king’s greetings.”
“That’s a message I’ll carry myself, Colonel, but better to send two of each. Let Fane hear voices from two regiments.”
Tamarak chose one of his veterans and a volunteer and they split off from the main body of soldiers when they were still some miles from Great Howe. Shortly after that a rider came up to Tamarak from the rear of the column.
“My Lord’s compliments, Colonel, but we seem to have company.”
Tamarak pulled out of the line and rode clear of the column’s dust, looking back. The messenger reined in next to him, stood in his saddle and pointed.
“There, Colonel.”
It was a good way off, perhaps a mile behind them on the road, but there was no mistaking the dust cloud. Cavalry, and riding hard. He turned and looked ahead. How far was Great Howe? They were free of the hills now and in open country, so it would be a straight race across the grassland. Three miles?
He spurred his horse back to the column and rode to the head. Ingris was there.
“Pick up the pace, Captain,” he said. “We have unwelcome company.”
Ingris threw a look over his shoulder, even though he must have known there was nothing to see, and spurred his own horse into a tired canter. The rest of the column followed, stretching out as each line of horsemen kicked their reluctant mounts forwards.
The King’s Own moved up either side of them, broadening the column, keeping the same pace, though Tamarak didn’t doubt they could pull ahead if Redcliffe wished it. It was a nice gesture.
He could see Great Howe clearly enough now, and the small settlement that shared its name. Ten more minutes and they’d be there.
But the gates were shut.
Even at this distance he could see that the entrance at the top of the castle approach was dark. That meant that someone was in the castle.
It wouldn’t be the townsfolk, so it was one of two things. Either Alwain’s men had sent a detachment to hold the place when they’d made it through The Pinch, or it was the men he’d sent off on foot – Lieutenant Pitt and his men. But Pitt should have been at Littlebridge by now.
He eased to the outside of the column and found Redcliffe.
“My Lord, your mounts are fresher,” he shouted over the drumming of hooves. “Send someone ahead to see who holds the castle. The gates are shut.”
Redcliffe quickly did as Tamarak suggested and a troop of ten men galloped ahead of the column.
“Who could it be?” Redcliff shouted.
“My men or Alwain’s. Can’t say which.”
He could see men on the walls now, but there was no banner, no sign as to who they might be. If it was Pitt, they’d be safe. If it was Alwain’s men they’d be trapped. Toss a coin.
86 A Position
The approach to Fetherhill was a broad road across flat land, flanked by hills to the north and nothing southward but open land and sea. There was nothing here he could defend. Cain had been sure there would be a ridge, a river, or some other feature he could use, but the land denied him. The fortress stood on a low ridge, alone in the plain.
He could go a few miles north, but that was hilly country, valleys and trees. There wasn’t enough space there to fight. The obvious thing was the castle, but that could hold no more than five hundred men if he packed them in like salt fish in a barrel. He had seven thousand, and besides, Alwain had left men there.
He had to use the castle. It was the only defensible position, but what would he do with his other men?
It took his men less than a day to capture the castle. The garrison that Alwain had left were hardly crack troops. The army surrounded the castle just out of bowshot and Caster went and spoke to them. Cain didn’t hear what he said, and when the swordmaster came back he was terse.
“I threatened them,” he said. “And gave them seven hours to open the gates and yield.”
“Seven hours?”
“I want to sleep in a bed tonight.”
Whatever Caster had said, it worked. After three hours the gates opened and the men came out bearing a flag of truce.
While they were waiting Cain had sent soldiers ahead to scout for anything that might be useful, but they were taking a long time to come back, which was a bad sign. Alwain was less than a day away, according to Pascha, and for all Cain’s talk of owning the ground and the element of surprise he couldn’t see a way of making either work for him.
He’d camped within sight of the castle and sent Colonel Sandaray to occupy it and scout the surrounding land. Cain had moved himself apart from the men, and set his tent on a low rise by the camp. It was the most prominent feature for miles, barring those seductive hills to the north, but it barely rose twenty feet above the plain.
He saw men riding back towards the camp from the direction of the castle. Sandaray’s colours. There were about a dozen of them, and they bent their course towards Cain as they approached.
“Some of your scouts,” Sheyani said. “Let’s hope they have something.”
As they drew closer Cain recognised Major Willan, Sandaray’s second. He reined in a few feet away and saluted.
“General, we’ve completed a survey of the land beyond Fetherhill.”
“What have you found, Major?”
Willan shook his head. “Not much,” he said. “There’s a river about a mile past, broad and shallow. There’s a wide loop where the river swings west then east again, and marshy land within it. Apart from that there are a few trees, a sparse woodland stretching north as far as the hills, but not enough to hide an army. After that it’s more farmland as far as the eye can see.”
That was his last hope. He had a castle and an open plain and perhaps a day before Alwain arrived. This was going to be bloody.
“Thank you, Major. You can report back to Colonel Sandaray.”
Willan saluted again and rode away in the direction of the castle. Cain tried to think how he could use the river, but if it was shallow it would hardly slow a charging horse.
So what was left?
Either he could concentrate his men around the castle, making his army like a soft fruit with a hard stone at the centre, or he could split his forces – try to get Alwain to do the same. The problem with the latter was surrendering the initiative to Alwain. He could pick them off one at a time. He’d only need a few hundred me
n to bottle up the castle. The former was equally unattractive, but at least it gave him some kind of refuge to fall back on.
“Cain.”
He turned, surprised. He had not known that Pascha was there with them. Perhaps she had not been a moment before.
“Eran?”
She stood on the same low mound, frowning out at the featureless plain. She looked very small, almost frail beside Sheyani’s horse.
“That was bad news,” she said.
“It was,” Cain agreed. “Alwain has the numbers. We need an edge.” He could create that edge simply by outthinking Alwain and his colonels in the coming battle, but that would leave too much to chance. Alwain’s troops were at least as good as his own and Cain knew enough about war to appreciate its random nature. The thing he could control most was the beginning of the battle, the initial disposition of his own men. The rest was chaos.
Pascha looked troubled. She was staring out at the plain and the castle as though trying to see something that wasn’t quite there.
“What do you need?” she asked.
A rhetorical question or an offer? Cain decided to treat it as an offer, to take it seriously. Pascha had fought with his men at Fal Verdan a century ago. Perhaps she remembered that.
“We need a defensive position,” he said. “Something to shelter behind. Ideally a twenty-foot wall with a fighting platform surrounding the castle, though it would have to enclose fifty acres.”
“Nothing trivial, then,” she said.
“I’ll take what I can get.” Cain replied.
Pascha sighed. “I want you to understand that I am not fighting your war. When Alwain comes I will not fight on your side, but there is another war going on. I have no desire to interfere in the destiny of Avilian, but when others do so I have no choice. I must restore the balance. I will give you what you ask for because it merely restores your advantage.”
The earth shook. On the road below men cried out in fear, and all around the castle of Fetherhill the earth broke open and a wall arose from it. It was smooth and twenty feet high, just as Cain had said, and on the side facing them stood a single gate.
Now that was a defensive position. Cain glanced at Sheyani who looked as surprised as Cain felt.
“Thank you, Eran,” he said. “The walls will save many lives.”
“Not fighting this pointless war would save more,” she said. A moment later she was gone, a brief swirl of dust marking where she had stood. Cain grinned at Sheyani.
“I never would have believed it,” he said.
87 A Price to Pay
Midnight had long since bid the land farewell. The camp fires on Raven Down were no more than embers and it was a moonless night. Inside Bram Calpot’s tent it was quiet but for the gentle snoring coming from beneath the skins and blankets on the bed. A lamp burned low on a table, making more shadows than light.
Outside, the camp slept soundly. Fifty sentries patrolled the higher slopes of the ancient fort, but they didn’t expect any trouble. Alwain was days away and no longer coming. Fane had left a day before with five thousand men so the camp had an empty feel.
In Calpot’s tent there was a small noise from outside, a grunt. It wasn’t enough to awaken the sleeping man. For a minute nothing happened. The lamp burned on and Bram Calpot snored.
The tent flap drew back just enough to allow one person to slip through, then closed again. The figure stood in the shadows for a moment, waiting. Calpot continued to snore. The figure drew a knife, a long, slender weapon that caught the lamplight for a moment. The figure stepped forwards.
“That’s quite enough.”
The figure with the knife spun around, then froze and fell to the floor. The lamp brightened.
Callista stood up from the chair in the corner and walked over to the assassin. He was a young man, still conscious, but unable to move.
“I was expecting you,” Callista said. She walked over to Calpot and gently shook the old man awake. He stared up at her with uncomprehending eyes.
“Callista?”
She offered him a cup of water which he drank down. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and sat up, only now seeing the man on the floor and the knife in his hand.
“What…?”
“He was here to kill you, Bram,” Callista said. “I was waiting for him.”
“But how’d you know? And why?” Calpot looked at the man. “I don’t know him.”
Callista didn’t answer his questions. She gestured with a hand and the assassin levitated from the floor and came to rest in a chair. The knife dropped from his hand.
“I will allow you to speak,” she said. “Who sent you?”
The man said nothing.
“There’s nothing she can do to help you,” Callista said. “And there’s nothing that I don’t know. I want you to speak for General Calpot’s benefit. He needs to know.”
The man gasped as though burned. He looked scared, but still didn’t speak.
“Oh, come on,” Callista said. “There’s nothing she can do to you that I can’t do a hundred times worse. Or do you want me to prove that?”
The logic apparently got through to him. He nodded. “Catamel,” he said. “She sent me.”
Calpot’s jaw dropped. “Jess? Why would she want me dead?”
“Now that’s a question we should ask her personally,” Callista said. “She will be waiting for your report, I expect, so we’ll see she gets it.”
The assassin stood up, his movements jerky and unnatural. He walked out of the tent and Callista followed. Bram trailed behind them. Outside the single guard was slumped on the ground. Bram crouched next to him.
“He’s all right,” Callista said. “I protected him from the knife.”
Bram looked up at her. “You were expecting this,” he said. “How’d you know?”
“Dragon gift,” she said. “It’s complicated. I’ll explain later. Now we have business with Jess Catamel.”
She moved the assassin again. She was quickly getting the hang of moving him naturally. It was like walking with two bodies. She just had to do it without thinking too much. Trying to manage each arm and leg was too much, she just had to think about walking instead.
They wound through the quiet camp. It wasn’t far to Catamel’s tent and they passed nobody on the way. There were two men sitting outside the tent, but Callista stilled both of them, and they watched her pass with frightened eyes, unable to warn whoever was within.
The assassin stepped inside. Callista and Bram remained in the darkness, listening.
“Is it done?” The voice was Catamel’s.
“Yes,” the assassin said, his voice a little strained. He was speaking against his will.
“Good. With Calpot gone we can force the others to accept me as commander. Our men are in place?”
“They are,” another voice said.
That was enough for Callista. She looked at Bram. He seemed sad in the starlight, his shoulders slumped. That was how it felt to be betrayed by a friend – or a relative. She stepped through the flap into the tent.
There were four of them inside. One of them, a young man, reached for his blade. The others stared at her. The man with the blade dropped it, crying out. Callista had made it almost red hot.
“Well, well,” she said. “Is this a grab for power? Catamel?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “The high born never will. The people need to be free.”
“Free to answer to you, you mean?”
“This is none of your business. You’re a high born Afaeli. This isn’t even your country.”
Callista shook her head. “You’re right. I’m not Avilian. This isn’t my war, but Bram Calpot is a friend. I hold him in high regard. Jerac Fane too. You are betraying both, and I really don’t think you’re doing it for the good of your people.”
“Calpot is dead,” Catamel said.
“No. He’s waiting outside.”
Catamel looked at the assassin, but the man st
ood mute. Only his eyes showed the desperation he felt. Catamel reached for a blade, but Callista made it disappear, moved it in a moment to Bram’s tent.
“Who else knew?” Callista asked.
“I won’t tell you,” Catamel snapped.
“I am a god-mage, Catamel. I can do things to you that would make a Telan torturer blush. I can make your blood burn, every nerve in your body scream, and I can keep you like that, conscious, for ever.”
Catamel paled. “You wouldn’t. The Sparrow would never allow it.”
“You’re right, she wouldn’t, but I only need to do it until you talk. It won’t take long.” She smiled.
Catamel gasped and doubled over, clutching at her belly. She staggered, but straightened again.
“Just a taste,” Callista said. “Tell me.”
“Don’t,” one of the men said. Callista silenced him, stole his voice and stuck his feet to the ground.
“Bad advice,” she said. “Because you will tell me in the end. And if I tire of your pain, I have three others here who can speak.”
Catamel slumped. “Spare my life,” she said.
“You don’t deserve it. You’re the prime mover here, the beneficiary of this betrayal. If I spare you, I must spare everyone. That would be absurd.” But Callista’s anger was beginning to fade, her outrage at what the woman had plotted was draining away. Catamel had failed. Bram was still alive. Even so.
“But you were a town mayor,” Callista said. “You tell me. If someone was brought before you accused of attempted murder what would your judgement have been?”
“It’s not the same,” Catamel protested.
“It’s the same. If I thought for a moment that your motive came from a higher place it would be different, but this was killing for gain – no different from a street thief. What would your judgement be?”
Catamel didn’t reply. She was almost cringing now, and it felt like beating a wounded animal. She didn’t doubt that Catamel deserved to die, but she was reluctant to pass sentence herself.
The tent flap lifted and Bram stepped through. The slump in his shoulders was gone. He looked strong again.
