by Tim Stead
In the middle of the army he could see the cluster of officers around Haliman and Alwain. They were together now, after the cavalry raid. Dunst thought he’d glimpsed one of his former comrades on horseback. He couldn’t be sure, but he believed Tamarak had been responsible.
It was all so pointless. One of his cousins was with Jerac Fane. Men he’d counted as friends a year ago were serving with Arbak. He had friends here, too, good people, waggoners, cooks, even some of the soldiers. They were all Avilian, all people like him.
He kept walking, pushing through the thickening mass of soldiers as he neared the army’s commanders.
A man blocked his way. Dunst saw lieutenant’s insignia, an anxious, strained face.
“What are you doing here?” the soldier demanded. “You should stay with your wagons.”
“Urgent message for the Duke,” Dunst said. “I have information he needs to know.”
The soldier stared at him for a moment, making up his mind, then nodded. “I’ll take you through,” he said.
Dunst followed him.
*
Cain didn’t lead his troops out of the gate. Instead he donned his armour and walked down to the bailey where Caster was waiting for him. Sheyani was there, too, and Pascha, brooding silently. Cain kissed Sheyani and nodded to Pascha. Spans and Catto stood nearby, armed and ready.
“Stay here,” he told them. “Guard Sheyani.”
He swung up onto his horse and looked at Caster.
“It’s time, then,” he said.
They rode out of the gate side by side. The army had formed up on the plain in accordance with his instructions, and Cain rode down the broad gap they’d left in their ranks until they reached the front.
“On foot, I think,” he said. He and Caster dismounted and drew their lethal blades. A soldier led their horses away.
“We’ll wait for Jerac,” he said. “It won’t be long.”
Cain looked across at Alwain’s army. The thousands of men were formed up in good order. Their position was decent and even from here he could see that they had prepared for attacks on both flanks. None of that mattered. They would be butchered.
He glanced across at Caster and found the swordmaster looking back at him. He could tell even though the black helmet hid Caster’s eyes.
“One way or another it ends today,” Caster said.
“I don’t like this,” Cain said. He turned and beckoned an officer to his side.
“Take a dozen men under a flag of truce and offer him terms,” Cain told the man. “Tell him he can keep a title and lands, tell him he faces four wolves, that he cannot win. Go.”
The officer waved forward a squad and cantered off towards Alwain’s lines. Cain watched him go.
“He won’t accept,” Caster said. “You know he won’t.”
“I know,” Cain agreed. “But my conscience bids me offer peace, even now.”
Something moving to his left caught his eye. It was Jerac’s army moving up in good order with two black-clad figures leading the way. The sight of it made Cain shiver. He had no idea what it would do to Alwain.
*
It was over. The first part, anyway. About fifty of Alwain’s cavalry had made it past the neck of the meander and were galloping back towards their lines. The land within the meander was piled high with the dead and dying and the river was stained red with blood. His armour was as clean and black as when he’d put it on.
Caster was looking at the carnage, a forest of arrows growing on hills of dead flesh.
“Gods that was easy,” he said. “Killing should never be that easy.”
It was true. In the end it had been too easy. Horses and men had bounced off them, the blades had cut through anything they touched. But that had been the plan. Fane was shocked it had worked so well.
“Cain will be waiting for us,” he said.
He gave the signal and his army advanced. He couldn’t see more than a few dozen dead among his own men. A handful of Alwain’s had crossed the river and done damage before they were mown down. Blood had been spilled. It was a sacrifice, no matter that it was a small one. This would be their victory too, now.
His men forded the river and formed up in classic fashion, cavalry in the van, then archers and pikes, and swords behind. In front of them all, Caster and Fane walked side by side.
As they advanced, they could see the wall and Cain’s troops emerging from the gate. They could see Alwain’s army. Fane couldn’t help thinking they looked huddled against the coming storm.
“Look.” Skal was pointing. A group of horsemen were riding from Cain’s army towards Alwain’s with a flag of truce. “Just like Cain,” he said. “He’s offering Alwain one last chance. Alwain won’t take it.”
“Maybe he will,” Fane said. “After what we just did, maybe he will.”
*
This was turning out to be a very bad day. A few hours ago he had woken with the certain knowledge that Cain Arbak’s numerically inferior army was bottled up in Fetherhill, short-supplied and trapped.
Now he was facing two armies. The numerical advantage had vanished. He estimated the new army was several thousand strong, but not as large as he had guessed when they’d first passed this way. He wondered where the rest of Fane’s men were.
Worse than that, the thousand men that Alwain had dispatched to deal with Fane’s raiders had been butchered. A few dozen were riding back, and most of them seemed wounded.
“Bring one of those men here,” he told a runner. “An officer if you can find one.” The man ran off.
Was it possible to retreat? It was too late. If they turned their backs and fled Arbak’s cavalry would run them down. His own cavalry and Alwain might get away, but they’d lose the bulk of their army, and after that it would become a hunt with Alwain the fox.
He looked at Arbak’s army. There were two figures in black armour leading them. Fane’s army was the same – two black-clad figures. Cain, Caster, Fane – but he couldn’t pick who the other was.
“Colonel? My Lord?” The messenger was back, riding the stirrup of one of the survivors. The man’s armour and clothing were smeared with blood. There was a broken arrow stuck in his saddle and another in his arm.
“Lieutenant… Chine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What happened?”
“Trap, sir,” the man said. He was clearly in pain. “They had thousands of archers. We rode into the middle of it. And those two…” He winced.
“Those two?”
“The black armour. They fought like the Wolf himself, sir. Couldn’t ride them down. One of them cut Captain Augustine in half, sir, armour, sword and all. We couldn’t touch them.”
Farheim. That was certain, but there was something new here, something terrifying. Perhaps Col Boran had taken a hand after all. What had turned into a bad day now looked catastrophic.
“Any man can be killed,” Alwain said. But Haliman could see doubt in his eyes. Doubt was a kind of poison in Alwain. It made him stubborn. It made him reckless. He denied it, threw prudence aside. He was more afraid of cowardice, of being thought a coward, than anything. It worried Haliman.
“Sir, messengers from Arbak.”
It was true. A dozen men under a flag of truce were riding towards their lines.
“Let them pass,” Haliman said.
The lines opened and the men rode in. They stopped before Alwain. The officer in charge saluted.
“Lord Alwain, General Arbak sends greeting and a message. Will you hear it?”
That was diplomatic, Haliman thought, not calling Arbak the duke. The young officer had carefully steered around the insult.
“I will hear it,” Alwain said.
The officer cleared his throat. “General Arbak offers you honourable terms of surrender. You will be free to enjoy a title and lands. Your officers and men will not be held accountable, and, My Lord, the General says that today you face four Wolves.”
Alwain was quiet for a while. It was
an astonishing offer. Arbak was asking him to just walk away, to accept the reduction in rank, and promised no punishment. Haliman willed him to accept it, to end this before those sinister black-clad figures began the slaughter. Four Wolves. It was impossible, but Haliman and Alwain had heard the testimony of their own man.
Alwain turned in his saddle and looked at Haliman. He smiled.
“You see?” he said. “They fear us. Why else would they make such an offer?”
“My Lord,” Haliman said. “General Arbak is famous for his generosity to his enemies.”
“Generosity? I need no mercy from a jumped-up tavern keeper.”
Haliman closed his eyes for a moment. He had a sensation of falling, falling into a bottomless pit of blood and pain. He’d been wrong. They were all going to die for nothing. He looked at Alwain. The Duke knew Haliman’s value, kept him close even when they disagreed. It was worth one last try.
“My Lord, in my sober judgement we cannot win this fight. I urge you to accept General Arbak’s offer.”
Alwain raised an eyebrow.
“Really? You really think that?”
“What they did to our cavalry…”
“Was done with arrows. Really, Colonel, are you frightened by four men in black armour? Four men? We have the best soldiers in Avilian and we’re facing peasants and northerners. Four men, even four Farheim, can’t change that.” He shook his head. “We’re going to win this fight, Colonel, and if we can’t kill the king it doesn’t matter. I have the power. Believe it.”
Alwain had banished doubt, Haliman realised. Doubt meant failure, and Alwain would not let himself believe that he would fail. It was a kind of madness, but its spark briefly ignited in his own heart. Why could they not win? The numbers were not that disparate. Their men were well trained, and Arbak had abandoned his walls.
But no. The spark faded when he looked across at those black, inhuman figures. All that waited for them was death.
Alwain turned to Arbak’s emissary.
“You may thank your general, but I decline his offer. We will fight.”
The messenger inclined his head and saluted. “I will carry that message,” he said, turned his horse and rode away.
Well, that was it. Their last chance at old age was riding away. Haliman looked up at the grey sky. Fitting, he thought. But every soldier knows this day might come, and there was no getting out of it. His duty was to guard his lord, to stand between him and all the swords and arrows in the world.
He hoped it would be quick.
“My Lord? This man says he has a message for you. An important message.”
Haliman looked past the speaker. Dunst. Captain Dunst of Fetherhill as was.
Alwain saw him, too.
“The one-legged waggoner. What message can you have? Do you need more axle grease?”
Dunst smiled at the insult. “No, My Lord,” he said. “But I can tell you how we will win this day.”
*
Pascha had retreated to the castle and climbed to the top of the highest tower. From here she could clearly see all three armies. If this had been an ordinary battle, a fight of men against men, it would have been interesting. But Narak had cheated. This would be like watching cattle in a stockyard.
Sheyani had stayed below. She never liked to watch Cain fight. Win or lose, she found the prospect unbearable. So Pascha was alone. She was aware of the others who watched. High above, hidden by clouds and sheer distance, Bane circled. Somehow he could still see everything, despite the overcast. Dragon eyes, as Narak was fond of saying, were different.
In the distance, on one of the low hills to the north, Callista watched. They were aware of each other, the two god-mages, but they had not spoken.
She saw the riders go out from Cain’s ranks and guessed what was happening. Narak would not have made such a gesture. He had no time for those foolish enough to face him. It was something else he was fond of saying: if men sought death, who was he to deny them?
A short time later the same men emerged from Alwain’s ranks and cantered back to Cain’s. Pascha waited to see if anything had changed, but after a couple of minutes a drum began to sound and the two black figures at the head of the army began to walk forwards.
Pascha sighed. Somewhere inside she had hoped that this could be avoided. This battle would leave Avilian lame for generations.
Less than a minute later Jerac and Skal began to advance, a line of cavalry behind them, then a heavy rank of archers. She was a little surprised. Both generals had opted to use their men in the fight. Pascha had seen that armour and she knew what it was. Where it had come from, she couldn’t say, only that she could not have made it herself. It was dragon magic.
A horn sounded somewhere, and a flag of truce was raised over Alwain’s army. What did that signify, she wondered? Had Alwain changed his mind? He hardly seemed the type.
Below her feet the earth shivered. She could feel it all the way up on the tower. Was it…?
The tower bucked and then split with a sound like a whip cracking, but much, much louder. Pascha held herself in the air, but out on the plain the earth was moving like water, waves lifted and hurled the men and horses from their feet. She reached down into the ground beneath her, as far as she could.
He was there, his power, pushing and tearing at the rock. She set herself against him, fighting every thrust, pushing down every time he pushed up.
Callista joined her, and now they were winning. She had expected some sort of attack, and he had done this before, in The Pinch. But why now? She didn’t have time to think. Fighting him was like trying to hold a flock of birds in an open basket, but the two of them were doing it, and gradually the earth subsided. The bucking became twitching. The waves became ripples and then, just as suddenly as he had struck, he was gone.
Pascha opened her eyes and looked down. She was fifty feet above what was left of Fetherhill Castle.
There had been people down there. A glance at the battlefield showed chaos, but Pascha was focussed on the disaster at her feet. She went down and stood among the rubble. There were people here, already beginning to dig.
One of them was Cain’s bodyguard, Catto.
*
Cain managed to keep his feet. It was the armour. The shaking ground was a horse without reins or stirrups, but the armour was like deep roots. It held him upright. When it stopped, he looked at Caster. The swordmaster was upright, too.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Earthshake,” Cain said. “And probably not natural. Did you see a flag of truce over there?” He pointed with a blade at Alwain’s scattered army.
“I did, but only for a moment.”
“Well, then, let’s go and see what they want to talk about,” Cain said.
Caster looked behind him and Cain followed his glance. Their own army was in no state to fight, but they were fixing that. Lines were forming, though most of the horses from both armies had bolted. He saw Sandaray giving orders.
“Colonel Sandaray,” he shouted. “You have command. Restore order and wait.”
They walked towards Alwain’s men. It struck Cain that this was the perfect opportunity. The disorder was such that they could walk through the enemy ranks almost unopposed, kill Alwain, and that would be an end to it. But how that served Pascha’s enemy was a mystery to him.
There was some resistance, but Cain simply pushed men aside when they blocked his path. It was easy. In a minute he arrived at a small ridge where Alwain had set his command post.
Haliman was there. He’d seen them coming and drawn his blade.
“Stop,” he said. “Put your weapons away. Alwain is dead. We surrender.”
*
For Dunst it was a simple thing. Waggoner or not he was still a soldier, and soldiers fought. He had fought all his life, and he had fought for Fetherhill. But what was Fetherhill? Was it that indecisive, rather greedy individual that currently held the title? He didn’t think so.
Fetherhill was all
of it. It was the land, the buildings, the people from the lowliest sheep herder to the lord himself. It was a way of life. It was the trees, the livestock, the smells. Everything. It was home.
He smiled at Alwain. Alwain was a fool. The deposed duke thought that he was Bas Erinor, simply because he wore the title, but a title was like a shirt, and a shirt could be taken off and put on another man, as long as it fit him. Frankly, Dunst thought the shirt fit Cain Arbak somewhat better than it fit Alwain.
Then there was Avilian. It was his country. He was an Avilian, and he wanted what was best for Avilian. He had watched Alwain preen and bluster, his incompetence shored up by Haliman’s common sense, his wild impulses tempered by his colonel’s quiet intelligence. Alwain was not what was best for his country.
“The one-legged waggoner. What message can you have? Do you need more axle grease?” Alwain asked.
Dunst smiled again at the insult. “No, My Lord,” he said. “But I can tell you how we will win this day.”
“How can you know that?” Alwain demanded.
“This is my country, My Lord,” Dunst said. “I know it better than anyone here. You have a map?”
Alwain studied him for a moment. Haliman was silent. Now he would either be sent away, or he would step up to the map table. This was the moment.
“All right, waggoner, show us your magic trick.” Alwain just couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice. He wanted the information, but he hated being beholden to anyone for it.
Weakness, Dunst thought. He thinks it’s weakness to rely on others. He stepped through the last ring of bodyguards, leaned his hip against the table and looked down at the map. He pointed to a place behind the castle.
“Here,” he said, and Alwain bent over to see. “I think they should bury you here.” As he spoke, he let the knife slide down his sleeve into his hand, turned, and drove it up under Alwain’s ribs.
It was mayhem. Men shouted. He was seized, struck several times. There was pain, and blood. Dunst didn’t mind. He’d expected to die. The world didn’t have much use for a crippled soldier anyway.
Then he was on the ground and Haliman was leaning over him.
“Why?” the colonel asked. “Why?”
Surprisingly, Dunst found that he could still speak.
