by A. D. Green
“The man makes much noise,” observed R’ell, a frown creasing his forehead.
“I better go get him,” Kronke rumbled.
“Let me. I think I know him,” Darion said. He glanced quickly at the holdstead and surroundings but saw no sign the man below had attracted any untoward attention. Standing Darion moved quickly down the slope towards the field.
The man was so lost in grief he didn’t hear Darion’s approach until he called out, “James.”
The man was on his knees but visibly jumped at his name, twisting toward Darion, eyes red and full of fear. “Darion?”
“Aye lad, it’s not safe. You need to come with me.” Darion held his hand out, beckoning James to follow.
“It’s my Da. They cut his head off. Ma’s there, crushed under the wagon.” He sniffed, wiping his sleeve under his nose.
“I see that, but there’s nothing to be done. We need to go. The urak may be back.” Again Darion signalled James to follow, but he didn’t.
“Urak, I did’na believe her. It can’t be happening.” James shook his head, voice rising, “They’re all dead. You brought them, you and Marron. All dead cos of you.” He started sobbing his head sinking down onto his chest.
“Sorry for your loss James but now’s not the time for grieving. We need to go, now!” Darion said, eyes searching about, nervous. The lad was making a lot of noise. James though didn’t heed him, crying instead, his shoulders shaking in sorrow. Darion turned away.
“You gonna leave me?” James sobbed.
“I understand your grief, but I’ve others under my charge and cannot wait. If you change your mind we’re just over that ridge. We’ll be moving on shortly. Stay or go it’s up to you.” Darion knew it was harsh but he wouldn’t coddle the boy. There was no time. A short sharp shock might do what words couldn’t.
Darion was half way up the rise when he heard the heavy hoof of Jacob on his mount. They said nothing to each other but Darion could sense hostility ebbing off the boy.
On the other side of the rise Jacob was amazed at the sight of the ilfanum, and scared too at first having never seen one before. The Black Crows looked on unfazed readying their horses as they prepared to move out.
Kronke, feeling the resentment the lad directed at Darion, took him in hand. Making quick introductions and having him check his horse kept Jacob’s mind occupied. Busy was best after what the lad had just been through.
Darion directed them south and east taking the lead. They followed the far side of the ridge surrounded by long grass, small scrub trees and bushes forcing them to follow old game trails. The ridge ran into another and soon they found themselves traversing gentle rolling hills. Bezal flew ahead scouting their path and Bindu ranged to the north keeping up easily enough despite her injured flank. It was a quiet ride; no one spoke as they tracked ever eastward keeping to the low hills.
Seeing the Encoma holding in ruin made Darion reflective. He thought back on what had brought him to the edge of the wilds.
Marron and he had all but run away from the Order Halls twenty odd years ago. They had their reasons for leaving and were overjoyed when Keeper reluctantly agreed. Respecting their wishes, Keeper instead sent them to the old forest, to keep an eye on things. Pleased to get away, they hadn’t questioned the ease with which Keeper had assented, thinking the assignment meaningless. After all there was nothing out here except ilfanum who kept to themselves and the wilds.
Until the urak that was. A stray thought entered Darion’s mind that maybe Keeper knew more than he'd said at the time. Keeper was ancient. Leader of the Order he knew things most couldn’t begin to fathom or understand. The more Darion thought on it the more his suspicions grew. He shook his head, he had to live in the now. Keeper would have to wait.
The company followed the low hills skirting the plains to the north. Occasionally they would take a break to rest the horses and Darion and R’ell would climb the hill they were on and survey the land to the north and east. It was on one such occasion around mid-afternoon when they saw smoke on the plains and distant farmsteads burning. R’ell’s sharp eyes picked out roving bands of urak and pointed them out. Darion stared but was unable to see them himself. He didn’t doubt the ilf though, the distant black smoke stacks were evidence enough.
They rode hard after that, an urgency on them now that urak had been sighted. The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, as they navigated around impenetrable gorse bushes and thick heather. It was late, the light fading to dusk when the disparate group finally crested a rise to look down upon Thorsten.
It looked impressive with its earthworks and formidable stone walls. At the centre of the town rose the hulk of the keep. Fires flamed from its battlements along with the Black Crow’s flag which from this distance, was nothing more than a fluttering scrap of red cloth.
“Home,” Kronke said.
“Urak,” R’ell replied.
As a group they turned their gaze from the town. The plain before Northgate stretched for a league or more before rising up a slope to the surrounding countryside. As Darion looked he could make out movement but no detail.
“There are many bands of urak,” M’rika reported. “Maybe a hundred hands in each, all moving south and east.”
Darion considered her words, worry lining his face. “Can we make the town?” he asked.
“If we go now, if we ride hard for the Riversgate we can make it,” Kronke insisted.
M’rika didn’t reply immediately but looked back down at the plain. Darion saw her glance at R’ell who signed to her. She nodded and signed back.
Jess Crawley watched the ilf suspiciously. She’d been shocked and amazed when they’d suddenly appeared, saving them back at the homestead. They were figures from legend. No one she knew had ever seen an ilf and yet here they were. That amazement and the relief of still living though had soon worn away. The ilfs’ aloofness and superiority rubbed her wrong. She didn’t trust them.
“What’re they saying to each other?” She pointed at the ilf.
M’rika looked back at the woman locking eyes with her. Jess coloured and looked away muttering.
“The town will be encircled by sundown,” M’rika said addressing Darion. There was a clamour then.
“What does that mean?” Morpete cried.
“It means we’re assfucked,” Jess said.
“Well I ain’t going down there. No fucking way,” Pieterzon shouted.
“Shut the hells up,” Kronke growled, menace in his voice and the three subsided into silence. Kronke turned to Darion.
“So you’re saying we can’t get to Thorsten without going through a bunch of urak?” Kronke asked his brow furrowing.
Darion stared back, but made no reply. The big sergeant had had a rough couple of days so he didn’t point out that he’d not said a damn thing. Ignoring the sergeant, Darion instead felt his heart ring, twisting it on his finger. It was warm telling him Marron was alive, but it also told him she was several days away at least. He wasn’t sure how the rings worked; one of their old masters, a friend, gifted them to Marron and he the day they gave their vows.
Darion walked a slow circle ignoring the funny looks he got from his companions and Bindu whining at his feet. Over the many years he’d learned a thing or two. One of those things was telling him Marron was in the east. He was sure of it. The ring had never given him such a clear signal before. Marron was not in Thorsten, his path was clear.
Turning back to Kronke but addressing all of them he said. “I head east whether you believe we can make the walls or not. That is where my wife and daughter are.”
Kronke looked incredulous. “So that’s it? You’re just going to fuck off?”
Darion felt his ire rising. R’ell was right, we talk too much. “Sergeant, I don’t believe you can make the walls, I trust the ilf. Whether you do or not is on you.” He paused, taking a breath.
“We spoke earlier you and I. Those things I said I stand by. You command these three.” He gestu
red at Jess, Morpete and Pieterzon. “If you want to risk Riversgate against all advice that’s your call. I would say that Lord Bouchemeax is well aware of his situation so any report you have for him adds nothing of relevance even if you could make it. So decide what you would do and do it.”
Darion glanced at James Encoma. They’d not spoken since leaving the holdstead. The lad had latched onto Kronke and never strayed far from the big sergeant. Darion offered the lad no advice. Turning he walked the few strides back down the slope to where Marigold was grazing on long grass and gathered her reins. R’ell and M’rika followed. He could feel five pairs of eyes boring into his back as he led his horse away down the hillside turning south.
Chapter 52
: The Circle Closes
Lord Richard Bouchemeax looked out from the battlements atop his keep. Fires burned in the town’s forges as every blacksmith turned out swords, spears and arrow heads as fast as they could produce them. Carpenters fashioned crude shields and spears, whilst fletchers churned out bows and arrow shafts. Lord Richard prayed it would be enough.
Below him the market square was a patchwork quilt of tents and lean-tos and thronged with people. Thorsten’s population of twenty thousand had doubled in the past three days as people from the surrounding countryside made their way in. It was a struggle to cope with them all. A lot brought crops or cattle with them but the problem was the grain needed milling and the beasts slaughtering. Time was against them.
Fear too was rife with talk of urak hordes rampaging and pillaging the countryside. Talk fuelled in the most part by refugees fleeing down the Redford road from the north bringing harrowing tales with them.
Richard organised caravan’s sending those he could to Rivercross or south west to Greentower. Those considered able were drafted as militia by Sir Cyril Dechampne his master of arms and he had his hands full with them. Ten thousand men and women untrained in soldiering; young, old and everything in between and from stockmen to holdsteaders, shopkeepers to labourer’s it mattered not except they could wield a blade or spear and hold a shield.
Dechampne trained them ruthlessly with the aid of weapons master Johanus but a few days drill would never be enough. Richard attended Sir Cyril’s training a few times to offer encouragement and was careful to conceal his disdain at how poorly equipped they were and how badly they drilled.
Most were armed at least, it was the wilds they lived in after all, but a rusted sword could oft not be trusted in battle. Some few had spears and shields, mementos for the most part from a time when they served as Black Crows. Well it’s what we have. It will have to do, Richard told himself.
In addition to the militia he had three thousand trained men at arms and considered himself blessed at that. His normal complement was a thousand; it was too expensive to keep much more in times of peace. That he’d High Lord Twyford to thank for the extra rankled somewhat. It was Twyford’s command he supply two thousand soldiers for his Westlands campaign and not prepared to leave the North defenceless Richard had levied them over the winter and early spring and trained them hard over summer. But those two thousand were green, untried in battle. Richard grunted, some blessing. It had cleared his coffers and armoury both to raise them.
So thirteen thousand to hold the walls, Richard hoped it would be enough; there was a lot of wall to cover.
There was a polite coughing behind and Richard turned, armour clanking. His chamberlain had suggested he would look the part in his armour, insisting it would inspire his people. Not bloody likely from up here, he groused to himself. The steel plated armour was heavy against his gambeson and it had been a real effort climbing the stairs in it.
His son Jacob stood by his side and at his back was Bartsven his personal guard. Behind Bartsven was Lutico, looking clean in a fresh robe, his hair combed back over his pate. It was Lutico that had coughed drawing his attention. Richard was pleased to see him looking presentable.
“My Lord, I have word from the council.” Lutico spoke of the Council of Mages.
Richard grunted for the mage to continue. He saw Junip peek out from behind Lutico’s girth and smiled involuntarily at the sight. She coloured, disappearing back behind her master’s bulk.
“The council have decided to send a small delegation of mages to investigate matters here,” Lutico said.
“A small delegation of mages to investigate matters?” Richard repeated eyebrows marching up his forehead, his piercing blue eyes staring pointedly at his oldest councillor.
“I’m afraid my stock with the council has fallen somewhat in recent times,” Lutico replied, understating matters. “The old fools have neither the presence nor clarity of mind to heed my warning.”
Richard waved his hand. “It’s of no moment. It would take them until the bite of winter to get here, longer if they mind a little snow, too late to aid us.” He sighed.
“High Lord Twyford bids me hold Thorsten, as if I would do less,” Richard declared. “He sends relief but it will take fifteen days maybe more to march his army up North Road. Until then we’re on our own.”
“As ever, my Lord,” Lutico replied blandly. Arching an eyebrow he turned suddenly and dragged his young apprentice out from behind him.
“Junip stop skulking so girl?” he muttered gruffly. “Come see if you can’t make yourself useful for a change.”
Lutico moved to the edge of the battlements leaving Junip to follow. “May I, my Lord?” Lutico asked.
Curious, Richard waved him on, “By all means.”
Lutico looked out past the walls surrounding the town. It was late in the day and several black tendrils of smoke rose on the horizon to the west and north. Holding his hands out in front of him palms facing he muttered words, incanting under his breath.
The air shifted distorting between his hands as he moved them in front of his face. His right hand moved a little. Despite the coolness of the day and the breeze atop the keep Lutico’s brow was damp.
“Junip,” he called out. “Do you see what I do? Do you remember the lesson?”
“Yes Master,” she replied.
“Well then stop dawdling girl,” Lutico snapped.
Richard grinned, remembering well the old man’s tone from when he was a boy. It was nice to see him with a bit of vim in his blood again.
“Richard, look over my shoulder you will see things a little more clearly,” Lutico ordered.
Richard caught Bartsven glaring at the mage for his tone. He’s young and only remembers Lutico as a drunkard Richard thought as he obliged, slipping behind his old teacher and looking as instructed.
Richard took an involuntary step back. Before him was a farmstead with smoke curling from its thatch as fire burnt beneath. Glancing around Lutico’s hands he saw the town laid out as before. Realisation dawned as he fastened on a far distant point, smoke dribbling into the sky. Somehow Lutico had magnified his vision; he could see a point much further away as if it were a mere hundred yards distant.
Amazed he looked again, holding his breath as a group of urak appeared from behind the burning farm. He felt a trickle of fear at the sight despite knowing what to expect. After all he had some dead ones in his cells. These though were very much alive and ready for battle.
One might mistake them for men at first glance. The differences though were apparent on close inspection; larger for one thing, more squat and hulking with heads slightly too big for their frames. Their skin was grey in hue and their faces marked with white paint in the shape of a hand. Different then from the dead urak in his cells; their heads were red, like they’d been dipped in blood. A different clan or tribe he wondered?
“I’ll pan my hands to the north my Lord,” Lutico said, interrupting Richard’s thoughts. Slowly Lutico turned shifting the view between his hands. Occasionally he would tweak his right hand and the view would shoot forwards or backwards.
It was a revelation to Richard. What a tool this was. If he’d known of it then Lutico would have been marching with him on the Wes
tlands campaign. Something caught his eye, Lutico’s too for he stopped and focused the view in.
Horsemen, three of them and riding hard by the looks. Lutico cranked the view past them and spanned slowly to each side. They were pursued. Urak chased them and on foot no less, but they looked tireless whereas the riders looked spent. Then amongst the urak he spied dogs, big ugly brutes he thought measuring them against their masters.
Richard stepped back and oriented himself. They were almost due north and a couple of leagues distant. It would be a close call if he read it right. Never one to shirk a decision he turned to his son.
“Jacob, three men ride from the north.” He pointed the direction out of habit.
“Yes father?” Jacob said.
“Trouble is on their heels. Go meet them, see if we can’t ease their passage a little,” he ordered.
Jacob nodded, “On my way.” Turning he headed for the stairs down.
Richard called out. “No heroics. Take your company but only engage with bow if you can and only if you have need.”
Jacob acknowledged the order before clomping off down the steps. Richard heard him calling to his guards, excitement in his voice, and smiled grimly. War had come. Battle was on his doorstep. Jacob would learn soon enough what a terrible thing that was.
There was a saying that waiting for battle was the hardest part, Richard recalled. Bullshit if ever he’d heard it. Once battle was joined, that was the hardest part. Fighting, bleeding, killing till you were so tired you felt like puking your guts out. So weary your limbs trembled with fatigue, knowing if you stopped you died; watching comrades fall next to you whilst somehow you survived. That was the hardest part and a lesson only learnt in the crucible of battle. Still, he conceded the waiting wasn’t easy.
