by Tim Stead
“Goad and gallop,” Redcliffe said. “Don’t worry, we’ve done this sort of thing before.”
“And make sure you get your rest.”
Redcliffe smiled. “Who can sleep on a night like this?” he said.
Fane shook his head and walked on. Chances were he wouldn’t find his bed tonight, but he was Farheim. It didn’t matter. He could go on for days. He found Skal sitting behind a low bush eating bread and cheese. He was wearing Narak’s armour and looked like a disembodied, blond head in the darkness.
“Hungry?” Skal asked.
Fane could smell the food, the sharpness of the cheese, the warmth of the bread, but it did nothing for him.
“No.”
Skal offered him a water skin, which he accepted and drank deeply. He sat down opposite Skal.
“You don’t like this, do you?” Skal said.
“Yes and no,” Fane said.
“You’re really on their side – the people, I mean. You want them to get something out of this.”
“Am I really so transparent?”
“Redcliffe doesn’t see it,” Skal said. “But I think Tamarak does, and that man Wenban, he follows you like a dog.”
“He’s a good soldier, and loyalty isn’t a fault.”
“Sometimes it is,” Skal said. “It’s a virtue that should be tempered by reason. If you’ve got eyes it doesn’t do to let a blind man lead you.”
“Nobody sees everything,” Fane countered. “We’re all blind in some way or other.”
“True enough,” Skal agreed. “But back to the subject – how far are you willing to push it?”
“Push what?”
“You’re not a Johannist, are you?”
Fane thought about that. “I’ve read the declaration, of course, and given the chaos in Afael it doesn’t seem unreasonable, but here? I can’t see it working here. But there needs to be a change or we’ll have a second civil war.”
“What change? Avilian works well enough the way it is.”
“Does it? The people are so unhappy they’ve taken up arms against their lords and the lords fight amongst themselves.”
“Once Alwain is dead things will go back to the way they were,” Skal said. “It’s the natural order.”
“Not in the homeland,” Fane said.
Skal put the last piece of bread into his mouth and licked his fingers. “I forget, sometimes, that you spent so long there.”
They would never understand, Fane thought. He’d lived a whole life in the homeland, a better life than he’d known in Bas Erinor. They’d all stayed here, soaking up the same old lies, believing that they were better simply because they’d won the war, thinking that things would never change. He could understand Skal thinking that way. The man had been born an aristocrat, like Alwain, and his brief dip below that rank had only served to reinforce his self-belief. After all, hadn’t he risen to be a king, a Farheim Lord?
You couldn’t talk to a stone about water. But he’d hoped, still hoped, for better from Cain Arbak. Cain was low born. He should still be able to see with those eyes. Caster was too old and Sheyani, for all her compassion, was painted with the same brush as Skal.
Narak, of course, was the key. He was old and set in his ways, but Narak had a gift for seeing things in people, for knowing the right thing to do. There was, perhaps, hope there, too. But mostly his faith was in the common people. Once they had been awakened, their anger kindled, they could not be defeated. They were Avilian. The lords and ladies that ruled them were a mere system of governance and Fane knew, for certain, that there were other systems that worked just as well. Not that he sought so radical a change. A shift in power, a path to justice, an opening of the door was all that was needed.
That was the other lesson he’d learned in the homeland, and that they would doubtless learn in Afael. The common people had no understanding of power. When they looked at their rulers, they saw wealth and comfort, and that was what they desired. It took time to grow into that understanding, to know that with power came responsibility, and culpability.
Skal held out his hand and Fane passed him the water. Skal drank. “It’s going to be a good day tomorrow,” he said. “The war will end and we can all go home.”
“We can only hope so,” Fane said. But he had no home, unless it was Bel Arac, and he didn’t think that tomorrow would be the end of it.
But all that was for later. Now he needed to rest, to prepare himself for the slaughter. Even though he intended to corrupt Narak’s plan there would still be a lot of blood shed.
95 The Hero of Fetherhill
The morning dawned grey and laced with mist. Fane was still awake. He had donned his new armour before the sun coloured the clouds, and watched as Tamarak’s men, the King’s Own, and what few other riders they had, formed up in the loop of the river. He had five hundred horse. It wasn’t enough to attack with any hope of victory, but it would be a bait that Alwain couldn’t ignore. He wouldn’t want so many men behind him if he was facing Cain Arbak.
Fane waded across the river. It was no more than waist deep, and the armour seemed quite waterproof. He walked up to the head of the column and found Redcliffe there, waiting.
“Almost time, General,” Redcliffe said, looking up at the sky. “I’d have preferred sunshine.”
“You know the plan and you know your business, Lord Redcliffe,” Fane said. “In your own time.”
“Thank you, General.” Redcliffe stood up in his saddle and looked around. The men were in good order, the heavier, better armoured king’s men at the front and Tamarak’s light cavalry behind. Redcliffe looked at Tamarak and the colonel nodded.
Redcliffe drew his sword and held it high.
“Walk!” he shouted, and the cavalry moved forwards.
It was perfect. They had not been seen. Alwain’s men would be breaking their fast, eyes on Fetherhill and Cain Arbak. Fane’s attack would be just as he had hoped.
Skal came up beside him. He looked alien in his armour, and Fane must look the same, he supposed.
“Positions then?” Skal asked.
“Yes.”
They walked after the cavalry across the torn-up grass. The ground was heavy and sucked at their boots. The air smelt faintly rotten.
The neck of the meander was seventy yards across and the loop captured about twenty acres. Fane and Skal stopped at the narrowest point and split up, Fane going left and Skal to the right. They would wait here. That was the plan.
*
Tamarak understood the plan, but he was still apprehensive. Riding to attack a vastly superior force, no matter how surprised they might be, was risky. He’d done it with his own men, but he’d carefully planned his escape through paths that could be blocked. Here they were on open ground. Pursuit was inevitable and their survival depended on the discipline of Fane’s peasant army.
But it was a good plan. It echoed his own.
He rode high in the saddle, trying to see what lay ahead.
“Trot!” Redcliffe called. The man was nothing if not traditional, and a trot meant that the enemy was in sight. The next order would bring them to a canter, and then a gallop a hundred yards before they met the enemy.
Tamarak touched his sword, but didn’t draw it yet. He looked around him at the faces of his men. Some looked like he felt, but most looked determined and a number seemed keen.
Not yet.
They rode on. The ground was firm now and the horses were into their work, comfortable with the pace.
“Canter, and swords drawn!”
That was it. They were closing now. Tamarak drew his blade.
“This is for your families, for your homes,” he shouted. “For freedom. For Fetherhill.”
All around him swords were drawn. A couple of arrows zipped by overhead. One struck a man on his helmet and he yelped in surprise, but kept riding.
“Charge!” Redcliffe yelled. “For the King and Glory! Charge!”
The horses stretched out, and Tamarak cro
uched lower over his mount’s neck, raising his sword high for the first blow. A man to his right yelled and fell. More arrows fell among them.
Then Redcliffe’s men hit.
It was a special sound, the crashing of men into men, like a large glass vase, once dropped, that just seems to keep on breaking. His horse jumped a ditch and suddenly he was among the enemy, confused and scared men milled around, swords drawn. He slashed at one and saw him fall, spurred his horse forwards and killed another man. A third went under the horse and it shied sideways.
Then it was over. He heard Redcliffe shouting for them to disengage and aimed a last swipe at one of Alwain’s men before pivoting his mount and riding back the way they’d come.
The retreat was a lot less enjoyable than the advance. Alwain’s archers had sorted themselves out, and Tamarak rode in a constant rain of arrows.
The man riding in front of him went down, his horse injured and tumbling. Tamarak’s mount stumbled and he barely managed to keep his seat. He hugged his horse’s neck and dug his heels in. It was a matter of seconds. In less than a minute they’d pass out of bowshot and then it was just a matter of riding.
Something hit him.
It felt like a stone, but nobody was throwing stones. A sharp pain in his back, high up, a trickle of warm liquid down his side. He’d been shot. Tamarak knew enough to know that he couldn’t tell how bad it was. The pain was to the left of the spine, which was good, and he didn’t seem to be dying. He could still ride, and he felt strong.
He rode on. The pace of their flight slackened a little, and he became aware that someone was riding beside him. He looked across. It was Redcliffe.
“You all right, Colonel?”
“Fine,” he said. Reflex. “How bad is it?”
“You’ll live,” Redcliffe said. “It broke the mail, but the shaft seems loose. Probably a nasty cut. Couple of stitches and you’ll be right again.”
Tamarak nodded, raised a hand in thanks. He lifted his head and looked forward. They were half way home. His shoulder was screaming, but he trusted Redcliffe’s judgement. They rode past the entrance to the meander and he glimpsed a dark figure crouched down by the water’s edge, then they were dismounting, the leading horsemen already walking their mounts over the soft ground and into the river.
He wanted to pull the arrow out, but it was awkward, in that part of his back that he could hardly reach. He touched it, but that only made the pain worse.
He walked into the water, and for some reason that felt good. It came up to his waist at its deepest, and then he was scrambling out the other side. A hand reached down and helped him up the bank.
“Best you go to the rear, sir,” a man said. “Get that looked at.”
“Pull it out,” Tamarak said. The man shook his head.
“It’s stuck in,” he said. “Best let a healer see to it.”
It was frustrating. Tamarak wanted to be part of this, but he couldn’t draw a bow with an arrow in his back. He stamped past his men. Somewhere back here there would be someone treating the injured. He’d get fixed up and he’d be back.
*
Cain Arbak watched the cavalry charge with mixed feelings. Jerac was putting men into the field when it wasn’t needed, but Cain understood. He was planning to do the same thing. He looked back into the massive bailey. His cavalry were mounted and waiting, his archers, pikes and swords in ranks behind them.
“Ready on the gate,” he called down.
Jerac’s cavalry plunged into Alwain’s flank, but this was no gallant suicide. They hacked about them for a minute, perhaps a little more, and then rode off again. They’d lost perhaps twenty men, killed five times that number, and stirred up a hornet’s nest. The panic in Alwain’s ranks quickly subsided and a mass of cavalry moved through the army and assembled on open ground. There was a lot of shouting, then they set off, rumbling across the plain after Jerac’s raiders. Cain reckoned there must be a thousand of them, more than a third of Alwain’s mounted units.
He wondered what surprise Jerac had planned for them.
“Hold that gate shut,” he called down. Not yet. Not quite yet.
*
Haliman was furious. Not only had his scouts failed to detect a force of five hundred men, probably more, on his right flank, not only had those five hundred men inflicted significant casualties, but, to convert a minor disaster to a potentially major one, Alwain had dispatched a thousand of his finest troops to deal with what was, in all probability, a trap.
Haliman had been at the front, facing Fetherhill, watching the castle’s defences when the attack happened, and Alwain had been close to the rear. By the time Haliman made it to the flank it was too late. The cavalry were galloping enthusiastically in pursuit.
“I’ve dealt with it,” Alwain said when he saw Haliman.
The colonel looked around at the dead and dying.
“How many were they?” he asked.
“No more than five hundred,” an officer replied. “It was hit and run, sir.”
“A provocation, My Lord?” Haliman asked.
“Indeed, and soundly replied to. Our cavalry will see off those peasants.”
“Begging your pardon, My Lord,” the officer said. “But some of them wore the king’s colours.”
That was a surprise. Their intelligence suggested that the king was still in Golt with Wolf Narak. If they were here it would be a disaster.
“It may have been a lure, My Lord,” Haliman said. “A trap. And the king’s men…”
“Any man can wear a coloured shirt,” Alwain cut him off. “The king is locked up in his castle.”
“Nevertheless, My Lord, it would be prudent to form a defensive line on this flank.”
“As you wish, Haliman, but I’ll wager the problem’s eliminated by the time those men get back.”
Haliman gave his orders. What worried him was that some of the men had been in the king’s colours. Some had not. That could mean that the peasant army was here somewhere – and that could be ten thousand men. He called for scouts and sent them west to see and report back. He sought out the officer who’d witnessed the attack.
“How did they seem, these attackers?” he asked.
“They came hard and fast, sir,” the man said. “As good as any I’ve seen.”
“Prisoners?”
“None, sir.”
Haliman watched the line form, pike men and archers taking up their positions. Another attack would find the line hardened, but Haliman didn’t expect another raid.
A horn sounded in the distance and he turned to look at Fetherhill. The gate in the wall had opened and soldiers were pouring through it.
*
Fane waited. His own men had passed into the meander, crossed the river and formed a line there. It was all working as he had intended. In the distance he could hear the sound of more cavalry. That would be Alwain’s reply. He raised his head above the bank for a moment and looked. Impossible to count them from this angle, but it was a substantial force.
He slid the two dragon steel blades from their scabbards and breathed deeply. It was no more than five breaths before the first of the horses rode past him.
Wait. Wenban had to wait until they were nearly at the river.
Stones and clods of earth thrown up by the horses rained down on him. He adjusted his crouch and rolled his shoulders to ease the stiffness. The flow of riders thinned and he heard a shout. He stood up just in time to see his archers, all three thousand of them, stand and release the first volley.
Fane had ringed the meander with archers. They were on the outside of the bend, so arrows flew in from every direction but one – the neck. He stepped up onto dry land and saw Skal do the same the other side.
Dozens of men and horses were already down. Some of Alwain’s men were mired in the heavy ground, others tried to ride into the river, but were shot down by the second volley, and after that the archers shot as fast as they could.
It was a slaughter. Alwain’s men
quickly realised they’d been led into a trap and turned to flee. Fane and Skal were waiting for them.
Even as the horses surged towards them Fane felt ridiculous. Two men on foot against the best part of a cavalry regiment? He braced himself and swung both blades.
He almost overbalanced. The blades cut through flesh and bone, leather and steel as though they were no more than celery sticks. Without trying he’d beheaded the horse and cut the rider in half. What was left simply bounced off the armour as though he was a rock. He stepped forwards, blades swinging again. This was the plan. This was what had to be done.
*
Dunst climbed down from his wagon. The battle had started, and if he was going to be a traitor this was the time. Dunst hated this war. It wasn’t like anything he’d known. Fighting bandits was easy. They were generally few in number and badly trained and he had never doubted that he was in the right. Now he doubted everything.
He’d never liked Pomeroy and he’d never warmed to Tamarak. Neither had the common touch, the ability to be with their men in an almost visceral sense. They said Cain Arbak had that, but Pomeroy had been aloof and superior, Tamarak clever and demanding.
So where did loyalty lie? The king was impossibly distant. He’d never seen the man and knew nothing about him. Even so there was a sort of symbolic virtue there. He’d been uncomfortable fighting against the king, but his lord had chosen to side with Alwain, and Pomeroy had been foolishly keen. His lord, Fetherhill, was someone he knew. He’d sworn an oath of service to Fetherhill, but his lord wasn’t a clever man. He wasn’t a man you could trust to do the right thing. He’d changed sides.
But Dunst had been discharged from Fetherhill’s service. A man with one leg couldn’t fight well enough, and he was pretty useless around his sister’s farm, too, so he’d taken a waggoner’s job with Alwain’s army, so should he be loyal to Alwain? It had been Haliman who’d given him the job, so Haliman?
He shook his head, tucked his crutch under his left arm, and began to limp his way through the army. He’d been through all this before and he’d reached the end of this particular chain. Dunst knew where his loyalty lay.
