by Chris Bunch
Hal didn't answer.
"All right," the warder allowed. "Your accent's too back-woodsy for any Roche to imitate. On your way."
Hal didn't acknowledge, but moved quickly off into the crowd.
The waterfront was crowded, and not with a holiday throng. Men, women, children, some richly dressed, some ragged, some carrying elegant travel cases, others with improvised packs of breeches or sheets, eddied up and down the walkway, stopping at the gangways of the tied up ships. Most were looking for one thing—passage they could afford home before the war started.
Hal had been almost three months in Paestum. He and Gaeta had gone their separate ways, figuring their luck would be better alone than in company.
Hal had started looking for work with two dragon fliers he'd found in Paestum. Both were heading back for Deraine, though. The first told Hal he had no interest in hiring somebody who'd pick his brain and end up a competitor.
The other, more kindly, a man named Garadice, said he would, normally, be willing to take on an apprentice, particularly one who'd worked for Athelny, which proved Hal had brains, was a hard worker, and had the ability to get along with difficult people. But he was heading for home, "and putting my head under the covers."
Hal asked, and the man explained why. He'd just gotten back from Roche.
"Damned scary. Everyone's running around talking about how they're not getting their rightful place in the world, and Deraine and Sagene are conspiring against 'em, always have, and Queen Norcia's the first to recognize it, and they'll get their own back, and then we'll see what we'll see.
"Don't like it none. Especially when I saw the army warrants combing the villages, enlisting for the army.
"Roche is getting like a damned armed camp. The smithies are churning out swords and spears, the farriers have horses lined up for shoeing, even the damned little old ladies are sewing uniforms for 'their boys.'
"Like I said, a place in the country where nobody comes, a good store of food and wine, and I'll take note of the world again in a year or so.
"Or maybe not."
Hal was driven to casual labor, unloading wagons, clerking for a day, cleaning anything that needed to be cleaned. But there were hundreds, maybe thousands like him, streaming into Paestum, willing to work for a meal, when Hal needed silver for his passage.
And every time he had some money, the price of the passage across the Straits, no more than two days' sail, had gotten dearer and dearer.
Hal had at least found a warm, dry place to sleep in a byre whose owner treated him like he was invisible, not minding him washing up in a trough or even stealing a dipper of milk in the mornings before he went out looking for work.
He was almost hungry and desperate enough to consider the army's recruiters. But not quite. He'd worked too hard to serve any master for longer than a moment, except Athelny. He didn't fancy regimentation, square-bashing or the yessir nossir threebagsfull attitude the army demanded.
Somehow, some way, he'd find a way aboard one of those damned ships with their heartless captains, get across to Deraine and regroup.
As the days passed, he started paying close attention to the rumors, taletellers and broadsheets.
The rumors first said there were raiders abroad, hitting lonely farms and small villages along the Roche-Sagene border. The rumors were confirmed, and the story was they were actually Roche warriors in mufti.
Queen Norcia denied these rumors, saying it was very like Deraine and Sagene to come up with these lies when they couldn't keep their citizens safe, and perhaps they needed Roche to bring order back.
Rumors said there were Roche infiltrators in Paestum, waiting for the moment to rise and support an attacking army. Frighteningly, these rumors were neither confirmed nor denied by the criers and broadsheets.
Hal gloomily decided it couldn't get much worse.
But it did.
The situation deteriorated by the day.
A company of raiders was wiped out by government cavalry. Strangely enough, the cavalry was a mixed unit of Derainian and Sagene soldiers, strange because it was unknown for the two rival countries, always rivals, to cooperate.
The massacre supposedly happened not many leagues south of Paestum.
Next it was revealed the raiders weren't brigands but Roche military, making provocative raids into Sagene.
The Roche government, rather than disavow the dead bandits, agreed they were Roche dragoons, on an official mission, and had been ambushed well inside the Roche borders.
This was shrilly denied by every official in Sagene, Paestum and Deraine.
Next an official statement from Roche, sent out in Queen Norcia's own hand, said the situation was intolerable, and reparations would be required from both Sagene and Deraine.
The Council of Barons and Deraine's King Asir icily refused.
Queen Norcia increased her demands: reparations, plus a conference, in Roche, which would determine the proper governing of Paestum. At the very least, Deraine must agree to a power-sharing with Roche for the free city.
Failure to meet these "reasonable" demands could have only one response.
Norcia announced her military was being called up, and rumor had it Roche troops were already massing on the border, ready to march against Paestum.
Deraine refused the "offer," King Asir calling it blackmail "no decent man would ever respond to" and force would be met with force, if necessary, although he hoped there was still a chance of peace.
Hal looked up, wondering if that dragon, high above the city, was Roche. Other dragons, all flying in and out to the east, had been overflying Paestum.
No one knew what they were doing, but hearsay had it there were Roche troops hidden not far across the nearby border.
Hal remembered Ky Yasin and his flying show, and wondered just where the flier was, and if he might not be wearing a uniform or commanding those dragons overhead.
But it wasn't his concern, since he'd just figured a way that was almost unbeatable to stow away on a fishing boat bound for Deraine.
There were dangers of smothering under a load of fish, being caught and thrown overboard or simply drowning in a fishwell, but what of it? Staying here in Paestum was already dangerous, between the threat of starving, and onrushing war.
His planning was cut short by a stocky warder, flanked by a dozen grinning fellows. All had swords at their waists, carried ready truncheons, and looked as if they were in a transport of delight.
"You, lad. Who's your master?"
"Uh… I have none."
"Your work?"
"None, at present."
"You now have both. This is your official announcement that you've been accepted into His Majesty's Army, and your service will be required to defend the walls of Paestum."
"But I'm a civilian, and have no interest in carrying a damned spear," Hal protested.
"That's tough treacle. King Asir has authorized conscription for all Derainians in this present emergency, and you're one of the first to be honored and permitted to become one of the heroes of Paestum.
"Lads, take charge of our new recruit, and escort him to the barracks for outfitting."
Chapter Six
Hal stared down from the battlement as scouts and dragoons of the oncoming Roche army sacked the outskirts of Paestum.
Overhead, two dragons soared, banking back and forth in the stormy winds coming onshore. Hal supposed they were observing for the Roche commanders, comfortably behind the lines, planning the assault.
Centuries ago, when Deraine had seized by force of arms the seaside city on the border of Sagene and Roche that became Paestum, they'd made it impregnable with high stone walls, sixteen feet thick, covering the peninsula the town occupied from both sea and land assault. Time passed, and Paestum, the most prosperous trading port along the Chicor Straits, had built up to those walls and beyond. After all, it was unlikely there'd be war again, certainly not between the three most powerful countries in the known world.
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These suburbs had given fine cover for the Roche army as it entered the city. Cavalry, dragoons and lancers, had been the first to attack the Deraine lines on the outskirts, under the cover of a sorcerous fog. The untrained Deraine, in a moil of confusion, hesitated, and Roche smashed two waves of experienced assault troops into them.
The Deraine fell back, not quite breaking, through the outskirts of Paestum into the ancient fortress.
Hal had been very grateful that he'd been guarding the wall with his newly-issued unsharpened sword, dented shield, and leather armor. That had been—what, he thought dully -three, no four days ago. Or maybe more.
Hal had been assigned to a cavalry formation that lacked only one thing—their horses. He was supposed to be on guard half the day, the rest on other duties including eating and sleeping time. But there'd been continual panics, cries to man the parapets and such, so he didn't remember the last time he'd had two hours of quiet, let alone sleep.
Now Roche was bringing up its main force—Hal had seen, before the storm roared in on them, caterpillar-like columns in their brightly-colored, if campaign-stained, uniforms moving steadily toward the city.
Two soldiers manned a dart thrower in the nearby tower, a pedestal-mounted bow, arms of rigid iron bars. Tension came from hair skeins. The soldiers wound it back to full cock, aimed, and sent a long bolt flashing high at one dragon. The bolt missed by a dozen feet, and the dragon's rider pulled it higher. The next dart fell well below the beast, and the two continued circling.
Roche, fearless and confident, had sent four dragons against the men on the walls after the city was invested. They'd torn several men off the parapets to their deaths, then the dart throwers had been brought up under cover of night.
The bolts, a yard long, iron-headed, tore into the dragon formation when they attacked the next day. Two dragons had been hit hard, and, screaming, snapping at the huge arrows stuck in their bodies, had pinwheeled to the ground. Crossbowmen finished off the one that still floundered in the muck, its rider already sprawled in death beside it. The other dove into a burning building, and both animal and rider had howled down into death.
After that, the dragon fliers were more cautious, flying at greater altitude, doing no more than observing.
Hal looked up at them, wishing he were up there, even in this building storm, a storm that everyone said had been brought by magic, the magic of Roche, so that Deraine wouldn't be able to reinforce Paestum from across the Straits.
Hal didn't know, didn't care about that. But he figured the Roche couldn't try to climb the walls while this wind blew, and squally rain sheeted down.
He scanned his sector again. No movement, save the occasional scuttle of looters. Then he smelt smoke, and saw flames rising from one house, then another.
The Roche had fired the abandoned homes and businesses of the suburbs. Whether deliberately or by accident Hal didn't know. Probably looters had done it, in drunken accident, for nothing happened for an hour or so.
He heard shouts from behind him, looked across, saw a procession coming up the ramp to the next parapet. He was grateful they weren't coming to him—he'd already learned one of a soldier's greatest lessons: that anyone of higher rank showing up can only mean trouble.
The group consisted of four men, wearing the gaudy green and yellow uniform of the King's Protectors of Paestum, the supposedly elite regiment that guarded Paestum's governor, high-ranking officials, nobility and interesting things like the treasury.
Behind them were two young men, heavy-laden with boxes and cases, wearing expensive civilian garb.
Following was the reason for this procession: an impressively-bearded man, wearing dark robes and tall red cap, stalking along with dignity, followed by four more guards.
Hal decided this might be interesting. Interesting things attracted attention, so the first thing he did was plan his retreat—half a dozen steps to the nearest tower and its stairs, then inside against any danger.
That settled, he watched the show, about a hundred feet away, as the magician's acolytes opened box after box, spread out rugs and set up braziers. Incense went into the braziers, and the magician touched each brazier, lips moving.
In spite of the wind and occasional rain, the incense smoked into life. A crosswind took the smoke under Hal's nose, and he coughed. It was a smell not to his liking, of spices far too strong and unknown.
One of the acolytes and a guard turned and scowled in his direction. Hal put on an innocent air, and walked his rounds until they lost interest.
Evidently, magicians needed silence to work their crafts.
Ribbons were laid out in intricate patterns atop the carpets, and the two acolytes took up stations, each holding a long taper.
Two gestures by the wizard, and the tapers smoked into flame.
The sorcerer picked up a huge book, very ancient and decrepit, opened it, and began chanting.
Hal shivered, for the chanting came very clear to him, in spite of the wind, and grew louder. He didn't know the words as the chant grew louder and louder, the voice deeper in pitch, almost sounding as if no human throat could produce these sounds.
The magician gestured three times toward the Roche lines, and each time thunder slammed against Hal, though he saw no lightning.
The wind backed, then cut, and a flash of sunlight came through the clouds.
The wizard must be casting a counterspell against the storm conjuration.
The dark clouds that had raced overhead broke for certain, a sunny rift growing like a huge arrow over Paestum.
Then the wizard screamed. Hal jolted, saw the man stagger, hurl his grimoire high in the air in a spasm, tear at his robes.
Fire gouted from the tapers, took the two acolytes, curled like a living thing, and reached a red and black hand for the sorcerer.
He was shrieking, possibly a spell, but the fire-magic was stronger, taking him, and his body roared into flames. He pirouetted, fell, clawing at his body as it burnt.
Hal dove for his cover, out of sight, heard more screams, chanced peering out, saw all of the men on the parapet, soldiers and acolytes, writhe and die in agony.
Then the storm wind began once more.
The next day, at dawn, the Roche attacked.
They struck three times that day, with long ladders covered by archers sheltering in the ruins. Each time they were driven back, the last with cauldrons of boiling pitch.
All was quiet for two days, then Roche soldiers built a heavy wooden passageway to the walls. Flaming pitch was poured down to fire it, but the passage's roof was covered with animal hides, constantly soaked with water.
It crept toward the part of the wall Hal was guarding, butted against it.
Dull thudding began, and word came—Roche was digging a mine under the wall to collapse it.
"Arright, you stumblebums, pay attention," Sancreed Broda grated. The fifty soldiers were instantly silent.
Broda was a puzzlement, and a terror, to them all, officer to recruit. He was old, hard, with a scarred face and ropy-muscled body. He wasn't a member of Hal's cavalry unit, nor was he in uniform. He wore leather breeches so stiff with dirt they could have stood of their own accord, a yellow shirt that might have been white once, some time before the war started, and a leather jerkin even dirtier than his pants. On his feet were some sort of slippers, and a silk scarf was knotted around his long gray hair. He was armed with a hammer, and Hal had seen him use it twice on Roche who'd gotten to the top of "his" wall, grinning madly through yellow, rotting teeth.
No one knew why he was in charge, only that he was, and the gods help anyone who questioned that, although no one had seen him do anything worse than growl at the men under his command.
"This 'ere's a real official docyment from our rulers, gods bless 'em and give 'em royal assaches," Sancreed went on. "It's got all kindsa praise for you lummocks, on account of you're standin' in the most dangerous spot in Paestum, the thin whatever-color-you-yoinks-are line between barb'
rism an' civilization, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit… I'm givin' you the short version, 'cause we've got to figger out what to do next, ignorin' these eejiots, 'less you feel like dyin'.
"Anyway, everybody's real proud of you, for holdin' firm, even with those friggin' Roche diggin' away under our feet."
He stopped and, without realizing it, everyone listened. All heard the sound from below them of the Roche diggers.
"Now, what you're's'posed to do, an' every body'll think worlds of you, accordin' to these royal farts back in th' palace," Broda said, his voice withering in scorn, "is go walkin' back and forth atop th' wall 'til the mine's fired, then die real noble in the wreckage, keepin' the Roche back 'til other troops drive 'em back.
"Heroes to a friggin' man," he sneered. "They'd prob'ly name boulevards after your dead young asses if we go an' win this stupid damn war.
"Now, that ain't gonna happen. There'll be four volunteers up on the walls, making sure none of the bassids come up at us. That's you, you, you and you. Get up those ramps.
"The rest of you are gonna pull back, into that old warehouse there. Out of th' weather an' all.
"When they put fire to their mine, you won't be doin' anything like gettin' dead, but comin' out after 'em. Maybe a bit of a su'prise for the bassids.
"'At's fine. You officers can take charge of your troops, an' get 'em under cover now. Half sleep. Get rested, get fed, 'cause I think it'll get shitty in not too long.
"Yeah. One other thing. Four volunteers to listen for when th' diggin' stops. You, you, you and you. Follow me."
Hal was one of the four. He obediently followed Broda into the base of the tower. The old man picked up a bundle of torches, used flint and steel to fire one, went down narrow, spider-webbed steps. There was dank stone all around Hal, and above him.
The sound of digging got louder.
"You wants to keep it quiet when you're down here," Broda said. "Mebbe th' fools think they're doin' all this shit in silence, an' we don't know squat about what's goin' on."
He snorted.
The steps ended in a small cellar. The thudding sounded like it was not quite below them, but very close.
